you say you feel like the passenger
            in your own head.                  no longer driving
just watching, waiting.                       going through the motions
            of days that have become                 all too predictable
one repeated action after another      done just to keep
            your head         from bashing itself in.
I say are you happy?               and you say no,
           not even slightly.                     you’re watching
your life play out        from a foggy window,             too far away
           to laugh and joke and love.                I say do you
still want me?              do you love me any less?
            don’t know the answer                      so you flip the question.
time flies screaming                out the door-  it waits for no one-
            but drags its tail                     through the dirt,
and we watch it           steal the weeks as it goes.    I want to tell you:
            someday the motions              will be less smoke and haze
the days will be crystal            and breathe the life back in you,
            break through the rusted doors to your heart, leave them
wide open again.          someday you’ll feel like you
            and I’ll feel like me                   and these car rides won’t end
in tears and hands                    squeezed much too tight.
            someday you’ll wake                to the sun’s sleepy eyes
blinking back at you,                 your love spilling over
            like too much fizz,                    and you won’t quite believe it.
I want to tell you:          it’s real.           you’re alive.     you can believe.


                                                                                   unfold slowly.



1.          I wish to steal the eyes of men
            who dismember me with their gaze
            and chop up my essence to make of me
            only gaping holes and a pair of tits.

2.         I wish to soothe the oozing sores
            in my heart, to throw myself in a sea of feathers
            and serotonin that wrap themselves around my body
            until my euthymic mind once again grows fruit.

3.         I wish to hoard every happy memory
            in a neat little box, like a dragon with her jewels,
            to turn them over night after night in my fingertips,
            and fuse them to my soul until it, too, turns to gold.


WANDA DEGLANE is a psychology/family & human development student at Arizona State University. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming on Dodging the Rain, Rust + Moth, Anti-Heroin Chic, and elsewhere. She writes to survive. Wanda is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants, and lives with her giant family and beloved dog, Princess Leia, in Glendale, Arizona.