Don’t Call Me Jenna Price

Michael Di Iorio

Art: Emily Nunell | @emnunell

 

what hangs by the door?

mercy imparted or mercy implored?

i saw shapes that day i was around your house,

hallways like lifelines,

questions without answers,

and i was scared deathless.

 

how is certainty supposed to feel?

i haven’t been fashioned in a solid idea for years,

hearty laughs fall down with crystal salt,

and when the salt dries to pepper,

i’m lost,

still lost and laughing.

 

i’ve held onto the rope,

hand following hand

and i go along.

the path was always there,

one step ahead,

ropeburn real as lack of sleep.

 

what is left to conquer?

what is left to come by?

there is something underneath my tongue,

underneath my sight line.

which way am i pushed?

by which direction pulled?

 

i’ll ask you once to walk by your side,

for i am burdened by becomings,

weighted by wonderings,

and you’ve got a head screwed on and your feet moving,

onward north north east without falter,

and i’m lost, cannot feel any compass,

let me siphon that sense of self right off you,

convince myself that i have it too.

 

someone,

please,

drop down from your rest,

and tell me what to do.