Solstice Poem by Adelaide Lii

People look into her
eyes like chopping down trees.

She tries to find a comfortable skin to crawl into
(freckles and kneecaps) ,
the husk of a familiar longing.  

Daylight savings has her fidgeting,
painting gluttony on the walls because
she never feels more herself than
when the water is trickling

(down down)
(rainy days she spends in space) .  

But for the most part
she’s an amputee
never trusting her own lips or ears.

Her body betrays her and she strings
sacrifices and sympathy into necklaces,

Jewelry she sells like
sex
or saltines to settle her stomach
(on ferries and trains and after panic attacks.)  

The only way she knows how to love people is with her eyes

as if there are ghosts
inside her that
have something to say.  

If you looked close enough
perhaps you’d see her
mantra tugging at
the corners of her lips:

you are here you are here you are here.