Attempt #4, Saturday morning
The kitchen floor cradled you like
a newborn, impossibly twisted, your
legs like scissors in repose.
We searched your neck, your wrist
looking for the faintest pulsation
before we lifted you up, not able
to bear the sight of your dark hair
spilled across the linoleum like
a shattered bottle of nail polish.
One, two, three compressions and my
lips were on your face, as they were
months before. There was a twitch
and a groan. A hard shove and no
gratitude. "You should have fucking
left me where you found me."
I knew it was the last time I could
save you from what Minnesota winters
do to you, from what your broken
brain wants done.
She doesn't see a survivor,
she sees the missing pieces
of a girl - the curves that
defined her, carefully sliced
away from her frame, replaced
with stitches, with scars,
with indents. Survival feels
more like deletion, like war,
like waking up under water,
swimming against the current,
the undertow holding your
Taylor Emily Copeland is a poet from Eastern Pennsylvania.
She is the author of two chapbooks: "Caffeine kisses and long
sleeves" and "Monarch". Her poems have recently appeared in
Melancholy Hyperbole, Hobo Camp Review, Thick With Conviction
and Chantarelle's Notebook. She is a four time Best of the Net
nominee and also was nominated for Best of the Web. She reads
obsessively, likes pink things, drinks too much coffee, drives
aimlessly and falls in love too easily. She is unashamed of all