Brianna Albers
Poem For Rebecca Bunch
You’re not crazy. Or maybe you are. In any case I know
you won’t believe me, just like I won’t believe you. Your
reflection. I punch a mirror, glass explosion, knuckles
gross & oozing. I set fire to myself, watch the skin turn
pink, red, angry blossom. Defensive? Shut up, Rebecca.
You know self-sabotage better than anyone. In any case
I pick, unpeel, sing blood to the surface with a touch. You’ve done it now--
I’m afraid of seeing myself in you. Meanwhile my therapist
tells me forgiveness is private, that forgiveness & anger
can coexist. But how do I let go, I want to ask. There’s
nothing here for me to burn, nothing but myself, just me
& the pyre & the vagueness of sainthood. Yes I’ll burn
the hurt away. Yes I’ll burn the truth out. Yes--
I would do anything for you. Crazy, I know. We’re not exes,
but I’m sure your friends call me the cr*zy *x-g*rlfr**nd.
That’s fine. I’m never sorry when you’re gone. I’m never
crazy in my therapist’s office, just grieving. One of those
trauma dolls, unreality a coil inside me. Can you feel it
throbbing? Today an abuse victim, tomorrow someone
who recognizes gaslighting in everyone’s life but her own.
Pathetic, I know. Let’s not talk about the fact that I’m going
into counseling. There’s a sign in a parking lot with your name
on it & I think of you reluctantly, the memory a drag in me,
raised & irritated. I feel like breaking something. Is there
a mirror I can punch? I know you like sex, Rebecca, but
it’s not like I have a Greg to fool around with. There are
only so many fictional characters in this world to love,
and not a single one of them would want to see me naked
if they were real. Forgiveness & anger can coexist, so
forgive me this: I don’t want you to think me crazy. I’m
just grieving. Tell me I’m okay--
Something about the horrors of love, or the horrors of the
body, how the horror-filled body is sometimes eager for the
whine of the flame. And there’s the stigmata. Holes the size of
nails. But at least I didn’t move to West Covina. Now that’d be
crazy. Meanwhile I love people that are not you. And isn’t it
funny, Rebecca, that even love is something I am told to re-
learn. That love is now something I cannot recognize. Can
you feel the hunger in me? Does it pulse slick for you? To say
I am full of longing is to say I am full of mouths. We have
that in common, I guess. It’s always the crazy girls that equate
sacrifice with love. You probably dream of blowtorches too.
You’re not crazy. Or maybe you are. In any case I know
you won’t believe me, just like I won’t believe you. Your
reflection. I punch a mirror, glass explosion, knuckles
gross & oozing. I set fire to myself, watch the skin turn
pink, red, angry blossom. Defensive? Shut up, Rebecca.
You know self-sabotage better than anyone. In any case
I pick, unpeel, sing blood to the surface with a touch. You’ve done it now--
I’m afraid of seeing myself in you. Meanwhile my therapist
tells me forgiveness is private, that forgiveness & anger
can coexist. But how do I let go, I want to ask. There’s
nothing here for me to burn, nothing but myself, just me
& the pyre & the vagueness of sainthood. Yes I’ll burn
the hurt away. Yes I’ll burn the truth out. Yes--
I would do anything for you. Crazy, I know. We’re not exes,
but I’m sure your friends call me the cr*zy *x-g*rlfr**nd.
That’s fine. I’m never sorry when you’re gone. I’m never
crazy in my therapist’s office, just grieving. One of those
trauma dolls, unreality a coil inside me. Can you feel it
throbbing? Today an abuse victim, tomorrow someone
who recognizes gaslighting in everyone’s life but her own.
Pathetic, I know. Let’s not talk about the fact that I’m going
into counseling. There’s a sign in a parking lot with your name
on it & I think of you reluctantly, the memory a drag in me,
raised & irritated. I feel like breaking something. Is there
a mirror I can punch? I know you like sex, Rebecca, but
it’s not like I have a Greg to fool around with. There are
only so many fictional characters in this world to love,
and not a single one of them would want to see me naked
if they were real. Forgiveness & anger can coexist, so
forgive me this: I don’t want you to think me crazy. I’m
just grieving. Tell me I’m okay--
Something about the horrors of love, or the horrors of the
body, how the horror-filled body is sometimes eager for the
whine of the flame. And there’s the stigmata. Holes the size of
nails. But at least I didn’t move to West Covina. Now that’d be
crazy. Meanwhile I love people that are not you. And isn’t it
funny, Rebecca, that even love is something I am told to re-
learn. That love is now something I cannot recognize. Can
you feel the hunger in me? Does it pulse slick for you? To say
I am full of longing is to say I am full of mouths. We have
that in common, I guess. It’s always the crazy girls that equate
sacrifice with love. You probably dream of blowtorches too.
Brianna Albers (she/her) is a storyteller, currently based in St. Paul, MN. In 2016, she founded Monstering, a magazine for disabled women and nonbinary people; she currently serves as Editor-in-Chief. She is half of ZRIE, a new media collective founded in 2017 alongside best friend and life partner, Zara Munro. She is also on staff at SMA News Today, and writes the column “The Wolf Finally Frees Itself.” Her work can be found in DIALOGIST, Guernica, and Word Riot, among others. Find her online at briannahopealbers.com, and on social media @bhalbers.