Natalie Sibiski
to be whole
a thousand-piece puzzle placed neatly into piles
organized first by straight edges and then by color
where they might best fit into a picture eager to be
completed by soft hands searching for the parts of them
that make them whole right angles and rectangles sharp
edges and round smooth branches opposing them each
fragment a unique design many repeat or resemble shape
but not color others are similar in hues and shades but vary
slightly in size unable to fit when forced into the wrong spot
what fascinates me is this urge to fix what looks broken or
unfinished the satisfaction or pleasure behind filling in the gaps
of space and of time by spending it on a task you set upon yourself
think of how parallel we are to these pieces of a puzzle
all hoping to fit in to be positioned next to our counterparts
those that make us intact connect us to others how many of us are
so eerily similar that only when shoved into a spot we were
never meant to fill all we can do is try again over and over
until properly positioned right where we’ve always belonged
how special it feels to be an irreplaceable part of something
greater than oneself adding meaning making a difference being
necessary to illustrate an elusive image essential to be whole
while simultaneously feeling like a small cog in a larger machine
only slightly differing from those surrounding you
TW: insomnia
midnight pancakes: my remedy for insomnia
I flip the light switch to illuminate the kitchen.
Then, pull out a frying pan, bowl, whisk and spatula.
To warm their bed, I turn on the front burner of the stove.
Click, click ignite – flames, fire. I add water to Hungry Jack
mix, then whip. While the pan heats, the mixture rests to rise.
I run my fingers under the faucet and flick water onto
the pan to test the temperature. When the droplets sizzle,
I draw a full moon with the batter. While it sleeps, I wait
for bubbles - dreams of pancakes. The more the better, but
when new ones stop forming, you’ve let it sleep too long.
I flip the crusted crescent at the perfect REM cycle so it
browns on the other side, and continue the same pattern
until I’ve used every drop. Once I’ve created enough
saucer-shaped snacks, I grab a plate, knife, and fork.
Then, take the butter out of the fridge. The best time
to spread it is right after they wake, still warm from just
leaving the heat, so the butter melts into its sponginess.
I run a knife through them. Three times vertically, three times
horizontally into bite-size pieces, the way I’ve done it since
I learned to use a fork and knife. Finally, blanket with syrup.
I tuck these warm pieces of substance into their final resting
place. The warm butter and syrup combo make it easier for them
to slide down my throat. Once full, I’m able to rest as they digest.
TW: sexual
outlining love
Sometimes I think I could never imagine a time before your touch,
a time before rising earlier than the sun, a time before feeling your fingers
run along my back, gently nudging me awake at 5:45 AM, with just enough
time to stimulate both of us. The best way to start the day. I’m not even sure
I can imagine a time before knowing you, knowing your smell, the way you
wrap your arms around me and kiss my forehead softly. Do previous lovers
always feel like they’ve evaporated from your memory when you’re consumed
by a love, by a joy, by a feeling so intoxicating that you feel as if you might
need rehabilitation just to knock the habit, just to get your mind right. Was
there ever a time when my palm had no memory of how yours felt in mine?
When you didn’t reach for it at every chance? Because nothing has ever felt
quite like this, like my lungs are inflated by your pheromones.
Sometimes the thought of touch is too much to handle, specifically
when it’s the thought of your hands touching me, tracing the outline
of my body like you illustrated it yourself, remembered each curve,
as if muscle memory instructs you unconsciously, especially early in
the morning, still half asleep but dreaming of what you can make my
body do, how you can make me feel wild just from your fingertips
When your hungry hands get a small taste, they start pleading for pleasures
I can’t protest. Your fingers dancing along my vertebrae. Memorizing
TW: cursing, sexual, heartache
bruised, never broken
shoulder blades from trying to fly without wings.
toes after hitting the bag too hard during kick boxing.
shins from hiking up a mountain on a steep incline.
knuckles after scribbling away on a design. hands from
holding on too tightly to the child crossing the street.
hips after shaking them for hours to the DJ’s beat.
thighs from fucking like a lioness in heat. knees after
praying for days that a troubled daughter returns home.
a heart is not something that actually breaks when it’s claimed
to be broken. when I think of breaking, I see glass shattering,
a bone cracking in half, a screen splintering into a million tiny
images. a heart can hurt, it can stop beating, it can no longer be
a source of music. but broken? you don’t survive a broken heart.
Natalie Sibiski is an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore for Creative Writing and Publishing Arts. She lives in Baltimore with her dog, Alby. You can find her on Twitter @nature_Nat or on instagram @nature_natttt.
