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BROKEN HAND
Poems by Camille Germain

 

 

 

 

Asthma

There’s been this gnat flying around my room for days
every time I feel its pinprick of a body in my palm
it vanishes, into, through, out of the thick heat stroked air
like particles of skin flaking off into a ray of light
joining the surrounding dust that we eventually inhale
after it turns into black mold growing inside the baseboards
and enters the rooms along with its cousin, tar,
sweating from moist paint
like my body releasing toxins through its pores,
on instinct
I hold my breath
like when I pass graveyards
because my sister said it was respectful,
and remember this gnat is a life too.

 

 

 

 

Biology Mix Drink

My biology threatens
its attack - in every throb
of my right breast.
At twenty-five I've been prescribed
routine mammograms and breast
ultrasounds until the day I die.
Now all I do is wait for the green light
to cut off my tits,
I wait for my biology to scream
“Fuck you!” and leave me
mutilated and dissected.
But for now I am fine
with a splash of BPD and grenadine.
I'll drink my whiskey with
my coffee at a future date.

 

 

 

 

Broken Hand

It never seems to be enough
cutting pills in half to pretend
I am a responsible adult
but then I feel
the oval chalk slide smoothly,
and think
maybe
a few more won’t hurt
and when my eyes feel heavy
And my lips curl up into a smile,
and
my chest flutters,
my skin becomes a constant tingle
I am light,
and remember:
THIS is true love.

 

 

 

 

We Don’t Change

I'm insecure,
not in the way where I wear too much
makeup, but in the way where I
grab my fat in the mirror and squeeze
until I have finger-sized bruises on my stomach
and this never changes.

It's hard to be lazy in this city,
but we still leave cat puke on the rug
crusted over for days
because
neither one of us has the energy
and we do this again and again.

I am depressed
but so is he
and we both deal in different ways
it turns out
kind of fucked up
when he rips my pants off
and fucks me,
I, too drunk, don't move an inch
and I stay with him each time.

 

 

 

 

My Lunch Was a Salad

My sister saved one of your funeral programs for me
like a balloon from a party:
you, smiling, with your white bandana
the same smile of the boy standing proud
in his ROTC uniform.
The one laughing as we ran
through sprinklers at night.
The same boy who told me
something was waiting for him in the woods
like the watercolor ones on the cover.
We aren’t seventeen anymore,
and where I failed, you soared high
enough
to meet up with your father,
who shot himself,
and left you
to take care of your sister and mother
but look,
you became your enemy,
it’s like deja vu to them.
I never cried at death
until now,
this is out of guilt -
I pushed you away.
You were worried I was going to die
but here I am,
still alive and you,
well that smile is rotting
and your mouth isn’t the only hole in your head,
no bullet had been your lunch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

camille

About the Author
Camille Germain is a writer/photographer/painter currently residing in Seattle, Washington. She is originally from Indiana where she received her B.A. in Creative Writing from Ball State University.  Camille has experience with both creative writing and journalism. The purpose of her works is to share with the world an honest reflection of life. To her, art is about finding beauty in odd places in all mediums. One medium is not more important than the next, but rather an experience in perspective and emotion.
Links: www.camilleisisphotography.com
www.facebook.com/camilleisisphotography
www.instagram.com/camilleisis23

 

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