Yes, I am my own myth. Cartwheeling
through downtown’s empty carousel,
my spandex so tight it’ll make you believe
in justice. That night, under the gazebo,
the Gotham skyline shimmered like the flame
of a birthday candle. I wished to always
be in on the joke. Later, we were dancing
like a fistfight, his mouth full of baseball
bat apologies. But for a second, I believed
him, when he said we could live in his laugh
forever, carving up the city side by side.
It took a long time for that dream to shatter,
but when it did, it hurt just like home.
So fuck Destiny’s ferris wheel, her endless
circles of should have and meant to be.
Above that acid, I was gorgeous, strung
up like a guitar or a fish, ready to be gutted.
For the Joker to swallow me and spit me out
as a bone. This is the part people get twisted:
Harleen jumped on her own, like mezcal
into morning coffee. It wasn’t such a crime,
really. After all, who cares about
a better future? I want a better past.

Not pale yellow. Not subtle or quiet,
not the Home Depot paint colors
labeled “vanilla ice cream” or
“belgian waffle,” how they’re delicious
to the eyes. She’s Ms. Frizzle’s magic bus.
She’s the Morton salt girl, sauntering along,
refusing to succumb to the natural disaster
of human tears. In her center, she has a lattice
of deep purple veins, proud to be alive. Unafraid
of her snake plant neighbors, her riot of purple and
yellow in this pale green place. How she makes it all
look easy, like gold crowns and heliotrope robes,
not day old bruises, the kind I get when the ache
runs ocean deep. Like a good parent, I worry for
nothing. Come spring she’ll unfurl, her heart
spilling open in the span of a single day.
Hope, after all, is a gift economy. Soon,
there will be a ladder out of this grief.

For my birthday, I want to go to
Build-A- Bear. I want to pick out
a pink axolotl, and name her after
myself. You might think it’s weird,

but the RISD Nature Lab has an axolotl
named Xochi, so I'm not even being
original right now.  I don’t know if
Build-A-Bear employees like their jobs.

I don’t even know if it’s possible,
to like a job. I went to college, and became
very confused about capitalism. Mostly
because we could have created anything,

and we created this, and I will never
not be confused about that. I think if
I didn’t have a job I might just go to
every Build-A-Bear across the country

and steal all their little red hearts.
And then I would stand on a street corner
and give one to every stranger in Cincinnati
and ask them to tell me about their first love.

And a girl would tear up while she tells
me about her best friend. And a boy
would pull up pictures of his dad on his
phone. And I would tell them about

my older sibling and how they could
draw a dragon with their eyes closed.
And some asshole would probably throw
one of the hearts at me, but that’s okay,

I've been hit by someone I thought I loved
before. But this isn't a bruise poem.
It's a poem about how I would crawl
inside the Build-A-Bear stuffing tube

if they would let me. I bet I would sleep
for the first time in years. I think if I was
a Build-A- Bear employee I would probably
feel embarrassed, if I saw another adult.

Mostly because I would feel silly,
asking them to hug their stuffed animal,
to make sure it was made just right.
And it sucks, that I would be embarrassed.

It sucks, that we are supposed to pretend
we don’t want to play. I secretly think it’s
the coolest job in the world. Build-A-Bear
employees are creating miniature

Frankensteins. They are teaching
children reincarnation. They are
teaching them what it means to love
something so much it comes to life.

And isn’t that the most important lesson?
Isn’t that what they will remember,
years later, when they are trying to love
themselves back into wanting to be alive?