issue four / panacea
I tried to love (someone like) me
& this is how it went
Cailey Tin
I tried to love (someone like) me
You said the most unpredictable, insulting thing to
my face & I did what anyone would do if they adored
you, I burst
out laughing. Not the yeah-right-
you-wannabe type
of laugh, but real
guffaws close to genuine. Genuine, I think. & I can tell
that you’re not used to someone understanding
your jokes, your metaphorical riddles that sound
weightless, but in fairness, the moment you care
about someone, everything they say morphs into
a solid. This is how I learned poets can be hard
to love. Many things can’t carry the weight
of words translated
into concrete, especially
things like exhaustion.
I’m dead tired
of reading poems, both yours & mine, about how words can
burn; it’s ungrateful when they’ve supplied us with too
much warmth & yet all we poets think about
is how the heat rises, the heat
falls, & subsequently, the heat
leaves us with a frosty death, while at the same
time, we’re scorched to the bone. How can it do
everything at once? It makes no sense, the way you take
all that I am to you, splay it on paper like a journal
decorated with dead leaves, just a gust
of wind & I’m sent
whirling in the air, scattered like ashes
of your affection. Words
are wind-driven, like hurricanes, but all I wanted was a gentle
breeze. Once, when you realized that you overstepped past the shoreline,
you traced apology on the sand, FORGIVE ME, DARLING. I WAS MERELY
TAPPING THE WATERS.
I imagine you, after writing that, four feet away, attention now on a nearby
sandcastle, another beautiful thing
to contain in stanzas. To control your
gusty emotions with an outlet I thought I could see through. I know
your poems
are personal, but because you love me, I thought I lived
in them too. A grave mistake. I dug into your words too much, until
the sand turned a different shade of brown, each figure
of speech like torn-up pieces of a good bye letter.
I have a problem
too. I never said my overthinking is your fault; I’m saying just
don’t date poets. I get up to leave the beach, empty-handed on
seashells when, as if on cue, you lunge at me
from behind. Our embrace is soft & strangely,
light. Like falling
into a pile
of pillows.
While an entangled
mess, we watch the ocean fold & unfold
beneath a raging
sunset. & I realize, with both chill & warmth, that we poets wear
ourselves out, but when the storm
subsides, there is so
much calm & beauty. The waters, like
fire, are both parts exhausting
& exhilarating
Fingertips smudged with ink, you lay down
a picnic blanket on the sand, & once I’m close
enough, you take out a sheet of paper
& whisper in my ear, I wrote a poem for you. Rotate it to the
side. See that?
THE LINES LOOK LIKE WAVES.
my face & I did what anyone would do if they adored
you, I burst
out laughing. Not the yeah-right-
you-wannabe type
of laugh, but real
guffaws close to genuine. Genuine, I think. & I can tell
that you’re not used to someone understanding
your jokes, your metaphorical riddles that sound
weightless, but in fairness, the moment you care
about someone, everything they say morphs into
a solid. This is how I learned poets can be hard
to love. Many things can’t carry the weight
of words translated
into concrete, especially
things like exhaustion.
I’m dead tired
of reading poems, both yours & mine, about how words can
burn; it’s ungrateful when they’ve supplied us with too
much warmth & yet all we poets think about
is how the heat rises, the heat
falls, & subsequently, the heat
leaves us with a frosty death, while at the same
time, we’re scorched to the bone. How can it do
everything at once? It makes no sense, the way you take
all that I am to you, splay it on paper like a journal
decorated with dead leaves, just a gust
of wind & I’m sent
whirling in the air, scattered like ashes
of your affection. Words
are wind-driven, like hurricanes, but all I wanted was a gentle
breeze. Once, when you realized that you overstepped past the shoreline,
you traced apology on the sand, FORGIVE ME, DARLING. I WAS MERELY
TAPPING THE WATERS.
I imagine you, after writing that, four feet away, attention now on a nearby
sandcastle, another beautiful thing
to contain in stanzas. To control your
gusty emotions with an outlet I thought I could see through. I know
your poems
are personal, but because you love me, I thought I lived
in them too. A grave mistake. I dug into your words too much, until
the sand turned a different shade of brown, each figure
of speech like torn-up pieces of a good bye letter.
I have a problem
too. I never said my overthinking is your fault; I’m saying just
don’t date poets. I get up to leave the beach, empty-handed on
seashells when, as if on cue, you lunge at me
from behind. Our embrace is soft & strangely,
light. Like falling
into a pile
of pillows.
While an entangled
mess, we watch the ocean fold & unfold
beneath a raging
sunset. & I realize, with both chill & warmth, that we poets wear
ourselves out, but when the storm
subsides, there is so
much calm & beauty. The waters, like
fire, are both parts exhausting
& exhilarating
Fingertips smudged with ink, you lay down
a picnic blanket on the sand, & once I’m close
enough, you take out a sheet of paper
& whisper in my ear, I wrote a poem for you. Rotate it to the
side. See that?
THE LINES LOOK LIKE WAVES.
issue four / panacea
Absolution in Absence
Cailey Tin
Whenever I wake from dreams, the dawn’s
first light//echo//sensation I recall from it is conscience,
but the feeling distorted. A memory sunbathing
beneath an angry sky
as it spreads out her hands, like a bird split open, as if
to say, I know there are ruby
tides emerging from my insides & dripping
like
food
coloring into the lakes, staining the prettiest meadows, oozing in
my back like ointment seeping back into the packet
it came from. But look how much ground I’ve covered
since the sickness started spreading, now it only travels
with the speed of a coin trapped inside
an ice cube. What
a miracle! Disease, like a currency, purely breaks
free when the ice melts, so say whatever the fudge
you want, but there’s nothing I can do about it; call me cold
for flying off to some bitter desert. Call my heart made of ice for
not taking you with me, where we could’ve voyaged from
the lakes & meadows to a place with extreme flash floods
together; so much
fun, you said, being together, dancing in the rain! I wonder how you’d love
cloudburst, torrential downpours rushing to fill in the hole
of my ailing vessels, too hollow, like an empty pen holder, leaving
a signature on every landform I’ve passed
by with an inky, bright-
cherry-type-of-scarlet puddle. It has a low viscosity as
fluid as a bird’s flight, each graceful swoop echo-
ing in the crimson
spill, a duet of elements between air & blood. I wonder why,
after the night’s temperature
drop sucks up all the crisp brittle
air, I still dream in this barren land without you & the first
fragment//reverie//haunting I recollect from it after coming
to is your dry mouth, dripping
with licorice & something
red, pressed against every wounded feather—yes, this is
the part when the bird soars
into the picture, pale & colorless, beak broken
from apologizing. You once told me, your mind can forget but your body
can’t finish remembering. How wise
for someone who still believes in fairy
tales & clings to the illusion of my speedy recovery, our
swift reunion. We often think of how fast light travels,
& observing you, I can say the same with color. Your
lips & cheeks are like reservoirs, the way they’re an artificial
lake you tinted pink, & how its hue drained like
lightning fast. Cosmetics washed away like a hopeful valley,
overeager for harvests, then hit with a burst of change, & suddenly
it’s undergoing a drought
on time-lapse. I don’t blame you & your face. I’m sorry
for the color fleeing from your cheeks as I winged
off. I promise my reasons exceed beyond time & water
shortages. You’re oblivious to how only below,
below,
below
zero keeps my sickness from melting, from spreading
like inky puddles, from further clotting. You don’t know enough
about clotting, or rather, how the body remembers, but the mind
numbs in memory. You haven’t seen me frost-
bitten & tear-streaked, a statue beneath
a tenebrous sky, shuddering with relief that
you’re not beside me. Because look around,
who can forgive in this place
first light//echo//sensation I recall from it is conscience,
but the feeling distorted. A memory sunbathing
beneath an angry sky
as it spreads out her hands, like a bird split open, as if
to say, I know there are ruby
tides emerging from my insides & dripping
like
food
coloring into the lakes, staining the prettiest meadows, oozing in
my back like ointment seeping back into the packet
it came from. But look how much ground I’ve covered
since the sickness started spreading, now it only travels
with the speed of a coin trapped inside
an ice cube. What
a miracle! Disease, like a currency, purely breaks
free when the ice melts, so say whatever the fudge
you want, but there’s nothing I can do about it; call me cold
for flying off to some bitter desert. Call my heart made of ice for
not taking you with me, where we could’ve voyaged from
the lakes & meadows to a place with extreme flash floods
together; so much
fun, you said, being together, dancing in the rain! I wonder how you’d love
cloudburst, torrential downpours rushing to fill in the hole
of my ailing vessels, too hollow, like an empty pen holder, leaving
a signature on every landform I’ve passed
by with an inky, bright-
cherry-type-of-scarlet puddle. It has a low viscosity as
fluid as a bird’s flight, each graceful swoop echo-
ing in the crimson
spill, a duet of elements between air & blood. I wonder why,
after the night’s temperature
drop sucks up all the crisp brittle
air, I still dream in this barren land without you & the first
fragment//reverie//haunting I recollect from it after coming
to is your dry mouth, dripping
with licorice & something
red, pressed against every wounded feather—yes, this is
the part when the bird soars
into the picture, pale & colorless, beak broken
from apologizing. You once told me, your mind can forget but your body
can’t finish remembering. How wise
for someone who still believes in fairy
tales & clings to the illusion of my speedy recovery, our
swift reunion. We often think of how fast light travels,
& observing you, I can say the same with color. Your
lips & cheeks are like reservoirs, the way they’re an artificial
lake you tinted pink, & how its hue drained like
lightning fast. Cosmetics washed away like a hopeful valley,
overeager for harvests, then hit with a burst of change, & suddenly
it’s undergoing a drought
on time-lapse. I don’t blame you & your face. I’m sorry
for the color fleeing from your cheeks as I winged
off. I promise my reasons exceed beyond time & water
shortages. You’re oblivious to how only below,
below,
below
zero keeps my sickness from melting, from spreading
like inky puddles, from further clotting. You don’t know enough
about clotting, or rather, how the body remembers, but the mind
numbs in memory. You haven’t seen me frost-
bitten & tear-streaked, a statue beneath
a tenebrous sky, shuddering with relief that
you’re not beside me. Because look around,
who can forgive in this place
Cailey Tin, hailing from the Philippines, is a columnist, poetry editor, and/or podcast host for publications such as Incandescent Review, Paper Crane Journal, and Spiritus Mundi. She can be found (imagining) chipping away at pieces, whether it's in piano, journalism articles, or debate speeches. Notably, at 13, she received a Pushcart nomination and won recognition from Ice Lolly Review, Fairfield Scribes, and more. Follow her teenage endeavors//shenanigans on Instagram @itscaileynotkylie.