poetry | Tori Van Loon

POETRY //

My grandma always had my best interest at heart

so how could she have known

My grandma always had my best interest at heart

so how could she have known

I’m becoming fascinated by numbness.

She can hold onto me for hours-

I say I feel nothing but she tells me nothing is something, so I sit in my nothing until her

something unravels and sweeps me up into a basket woven by the garbage bags he carried out of

my door at 2 am.

At three times ten to the whatever (I daydreamed through) my eyes strain-

Forced open by the strength of Lamotrigine;

I see everything I wished I knew-

I blamed my school for that but I’m beginning to think it’s me,

Well

Her

She’s-

I’m beginning to think I blame everyone else to avoid saying I;

I was told I was selfish and self-indulgent,

So I failed to indulge in those rivers;

I hovered over the dam instead.

Sometimes I imagine what would happen if I dove in

But my grandma told me that I can drown from just one spoonful of water.

there I go again

blaming everyone else when I should say I but I centers around me and me is selfish I heard.

it is impossible

When I close my eyes my body is limp in a bath filled with english lavender;

My lifeless body makes sure my nothing doesn’t spill over into something.

Sometimes I imagine what would happen if I took a well-deserved breath,

But my grandma told me that I can drown from just one spoonful of water.

I’ll die if I refuse to fill my lungs again,

But I’m beginning to think she has the right idea.

I open my eyes.

The subtle taste of suffocation lingers on my lips;

I gaze down at the river filled with her somethings;

I ponder sitting in my nothing once more but I can’t.

I know that all it would take is just one spoonful of that water.

poetry by tori

It’s Always the Goddamn “J” Names

my fingernails smell like you;

i sit, stunned, sprung back to cold shower sex and hundred year long orgasms

always topped off with

gillette and french cologne;

i want to sanitize my hands with vanilla bean cleanser to wash away this diseased memory;

i want to scrub your scent off of me,

but i compulsively bring the tips of my fingers to my nose;

i inhale deeply to remember the many nights i laid safely at your side–

(i forget the times i dodged your kisses;

when i turned my cheek to your lips because i have a taste aversion to men—

it doesn’t apply to you but at the same time i couldn't let you enter my body without dissociating first)

i close my eyes and hope we’ll reacquaint in my dreams.

i love you still

still born healing

i can’t let you go,

even though you left me to fend for myself

(survival of the smoothest criminals with the cleanest records).

you promised to protect me.

my neurons order my lungs to refuse oxygen,

but when i inhale the scent that once embodied safety

i take my first full breath in days

(even my organs are attached to you).

i remember pavlov’s dog and fear that i will never unlearn this conditioning—

(classical fatigue).

you’re the only person i want to turn to

but i remember how quickly you turned on me

(180 degrees never felt so cold)

i miss you

come back to me

i never want to see you again

leave me alone

hold my hand

squeeze me tightly

crush my bones and remind me what it’s like to feel

i’m never washing my hands again but pass me the Dove and pray this merlot will leave my bloodstream and

take you with it.

Blinding Youth

My feet ache,

My muscles cramp,

My stomach does a double pirouette in response to too much vodka.

When I look around

My eyes snap pictures to eternalize our youth–

My occipital lobe is a scrapbook;

Images sealed with dried prosecco.

I grab the hand of my goddess

And pour her a glass of Paradise:

Bees buzz beneath our precious petals as

We scream for pleasure;

Their pollen punctures our youth–

This glimpse of heaven startles our humanity,

So we buy another bottle, or two, (or three);

We down these bitter bubbles and

Celebrate the waking of the Sun,

(She doesn’t have our stamina).

Her flowing rays stick to our greedy palms as

We chase her home,

Never stopping once, for fear of

Sleeping-over our ambitious adolescence.

When we catch up with the Sun,

We too will rest for beauty;

For now, we’ll outrun our fatigue and

Hold onto our blinding youth.

The Blind Mermaid

I hate the beach.

My sallow skin screams for the attention of the Sun;

Begging to be kissed by ultraviolet light.

My body is an advertisement for late night pizza—

Sporting a suit of sadness and grease therapy.

I bury my naked toes into the sand—

Sparing me the humiliation of exposed masculinity.

That has always been a fear of mine--

Contradicting my femininity with my many imperfections.

It’s exhausting—

Chasing the disobedient mutations of my unrecognizable body.

Moss spreads wildly,

Smothering my abandoned sanctuary;

Weapons grow in pairs of ten,

Reminding me of everything I ate in the past week.

I’m mercilessly stripped of every ounce of confidence I gained two weeks ago,

Plucking, painting, hiding, hunting

the predictable punishments that conceal my beauty.

They pillage my place of worship,

They rob the riches I’m told make me a woman.

I secretly envy the mermaid I once called my sister.

In her human form, her toes bundle up in a blanket of pearls.

They shimmer brightly against her freshly baked skin.

She’s perfect and she knows it—

A Goddess among (whoever I am).

She takes shelter on the rocky shores of male validation.

Kings caress her soft, immaculate body,

Protecting her golden skin from the rays that hound (whoever I am).

She carries herself with an air of superiority,

Floating freely over the unrest on our earthly realm.

I howl for her attention,

But she pays no heed to our urgent cries.

I beg her to open her eyes but she refuses,

Saying she can’t see underwater.

She dives down deeply into the dimension of disregard,

Desperate to escape this reality of devastation.

I trail her—

Together we traverse the terrain of truth.

I lose sight of her;

I am blinded by her pristine throne of unenlightenment.

I find her hypnotized by her own reflection;

plucking, painting, hiding, hunting her imperfections—

Of course she has them too.

She fails to notice me—

Little does she know,

I am a much more experienced huntress than she;

However, I’ve replaced my petty prey.

It seems a pleasant existence,

Shielding oneself from the devastation burning down our backyards,

But the stampede is fast approaching.

The volume of her vanity overpowers their clamorous hooves;

Ravenous for change, they ferociously bulldoze her beaches.

Her expiration date is imminent;

For ignorance is fragile,

And she will be left behind.

Shattered will be the opaque glass through which she’s chosen to look,

Leaving her with nothing but empty-headedness

And her unchipped white nails,

Now dulled by the permanent bruises on her skin.

It’s hard having friends who are models when

you don’t even know what you’re seeing in the mirror

Five Five-

Average.

One thirty-

Average?

Apparently.

Average means he prefers your best friend.

Did I mention she’s a model?

Your big average hips;

Your huge average thighs;

Your flabby average arms;

Your saggy average breasts;

Your overflowing stomach;

Your overflowing average stomach.

No defining lines here.

Well, maybe just the ones your jeans create when you sit down for too long.

Average means you prefer your best friend.

I told you she’s a model, right?

She makes you crave Skinny.