Angel Rosen

[INSERT TRAUMA HERE]

I tell my friend that—this time—
I’ll be reading a poem about being molested,
or something.

She tells me, “you say the same thing
every week—masturbation poem, suicide poem,
you know… [insert trauma here].”

My friend has held my hand through
nightly outcries of various absurdities,
despite having just met. We are always
just meeting.

The night I first sorted my demons out
to her at a diner, I think how regular
Tuesdays feel when you’re trauma dumping
at a Denny’s and this person has actually known
about your favorite band longer than you have.

Say less, know more. Send back the pancakes.
I ask for a refill that I never get and recite
Anne Sexton, declare my love for
several things unbelievably, let pain
chatter through me as I bite into a cold sandwich.
She believes it all.  This is a Denny’s.

We’ve been walking alongside each other
in the unknown for a decade, our souls well acquainted.
I finally rested somewhere within her proximity, say
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you, I’ve known you for years.”

Let’s meet again soon. Wednesday sounds nice.
This time I’m reading a poem about—

WOUND-WATCHER

“Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.” - Sylvia Plath 

Observe me perfectly, darling,
that’s right, don’t even blink
while I change the dressing 
and clear myself of debris. For months,
I’ve felt you listening, getting closer
to the places on my body where 
I perform the most exits. I’ve even 
stopped talking long enough to hear the sound
of you receiving me, the small clicks—
I welcome silence when I know
I’m only being watched by you. There is
an indicated language of my unbearable sorts,
my insufferable and grandiose reveals,
and you showed up already knowing 
some of the syllables.

I can see myself stirring open these wounds 
on the daily, nudging scabs off of them,
dampening them permanently—
Observe my festering, my lovely one,
sit in the sidelines of my off-put,
coming up to bat with tender glances.

I tell you: Oh, the wounds. Oh, the wounds!
I need to heal them! 
You suggest exploring them first.
Before I can respond, your fingers are in.
I’m too open now, too seen. 
I can’t differentiate or name my phorias. 

Now what? Now that you’re this close, 
we have to do something about it,
I’ve got to stop flying into windows
and telling everyone I thought it was the way out.
You leave your window open enough
for me to—at the very least—decide.

Observe me perfectly
as I settle down near you,
reach for your hand, press
your fingers against something unhealed.
In a few days, I allow this one to close, 
I welcome the relief.

You hold me tight and
suddenly all of me springs open again.
I am so sorry.
You already know what to do,
you’ve been watching.

Angel Rosen (she/her) is a lesbian, poet, grief expert, a chronically online millennial and neurodivergent human being.  She loves lemonade, The Dresden Dolls and sharing anecdotes.  Her work can be found at angelrosen.com. You can find her on Twitter.