The wooden desk holds me steady.
A kind of grounding.
My orange plastic mouth hangs open.

A new pill bottle sits beside me,
its label crisp and tight across smooth skin.

It hasn’t been touched yet.
I remember when you reached for me,
pressed my insides to your lips,
cradled them on your tongue.
My lid would pop open with a small twist.
I haven’t heard that sound in days.

This morning, the bone-white blinds are pulled open.
Sunrise spills in, swollen and warm.
Patches of light stipple your face and forearms
like saffron scales,
a splintering halo.

You turn toward the desk, and I see you clearly now.
Your shoulders sag.
The skin along your waterline is purple,
as if the night is still leaking from your eyes.

Wisps of hair cling to your scalp,
like sap sliding down bark.
Your lips purse as you sit.
The computer wakes.
Your eyes close.

Somewhere above me, water gathers,
learning the shape of falling,
tapping at the roof, soft, patient dripping.

You chew your fingernails.
Your hands look sharp now, jagged.
Icicle fingers stab and scrape at the keyboard.

You leave for a while.
When you return, your face is paler.

Phone pressed to your ear:

Whenever I do something destructive,
I want to destroy something else.

Fingers push against the phone;
red crescents bloom in the creases of your nails.
Minutes go by.
You put the device down.

You sit,
writing for a long time.
Your hands freeze above the keyboard,
suspended as if caught in ice.
Then they move again—quick, urgent,
striking the keys like rain.

Light moves slowly across the desk.
Then you stop.

Your hands hover over me.
For a moment, I think you remember.
Your fingers drift across my plastic skin,
warm and careful,
tracing where my label clings.

I almost expect the familiar twist,
the pop of my lid,
the quiet release of what I hold.

Instead, you lift me,
carry me across the room.

The trash can waits in the corner,
dark and patient.
You drop me inside.

The fall is short.
I land against a crumpled sheet of paper.

Its wrinkles press into my side.
Through the folds, I read the ink bleeding across it—
a poem, or the beginning of one:

I am.
I am.
I am.
I am staring into Heaven.

But Heaven is on its knees—humid and hungry—
crawling through honeybees,
their bright bodies burning and breaking beneath holy skies.
Nirvana blooms with welts,
oozing pus.

I tell God I’m sorry.
My lips must sleep.
The ether is atrophied.
God is permanence.

Because when I press my feelings into permanence,
there is something permanent about me.

And for a moment,
everything blurs together.

The trash can holds me waveringly.
A kind of sinking.
In this ocean of words,
I listen for your name.

Bella Melardi (she/her) is a poet and artist. She writes about the political and personal. She attends OCADU.

Instagram: @poetluvs