Small Cures Read online

  S M A L L C U R E S

  copyright © 2021 by Della Hicks-Wilson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

  Andrews McMeel Publishing

  a division of Andrews McMeel Universal

  1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  ISBN: 978-1-5248-7182-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021933773

  Editor: Hannah Dussold

  Designer: Tiffany Meairs

  Production Editors: Jasmine Lim

  Production Manager: Carol Coe

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  for

  the unhealed

  and mum,

  my first healer.

  everybody told her, “don’t worry

  there is more love in the sea.”

  she fished for days,

  only to catch herself.

  C O N T E N T S

  Preface

  I. DIAGNOSIS

  II. TREATMENT

  III. RECOVERY

  P R E F A C E

  In May 2013, I posted my first poem on Tumblr, completely unaware that this would be the beginning of the book you are holding today. Perhaps it’s true that you don’t choose the book you’ve always wanted to write; the book chooses you. And then, slowly, the work begins.

  My blog was a strange private-public journal of sorts; many poems, usually short, written straight into the “new text” pop-up box with minimal to no editing. When I had to review and select pieces for this collection, I had more verses than I ever remembered writing, publishing, or even feeling; hundreds. Some mere fragments, others full thoughts, memories, or parts of what seemed like imaginary dialogue made up of soothing reminders, warm directives or candid observations; some technical, some not. But almost all of them linked by one common theme, love, or more specifically, the desire to love better.

  I knew from the outset of curating this collection that I wanted to weave these laconic verses together into a book-length poem that told a cohesive and progressive story. However, it was also important to me that I was faithful to the original texts by not changing them too much, or at all, solely to fit this purpose. I wanted the initial emotion or idea that compelled me to write the poem in the first instance to be honored, whether I fully remembered it or not. The book is then, in part, a montage or collage of textual memory. Some of the work, though, has never been published.

  Writing this book has been a long and creatively challenging journey, and I am thrilled that through it all—the years, the uncertainty, the changes—my words have finally found their way home to you in a volume and form I am deeply proud of. So, without any further ado, here she is. Welcome.

  —Della Hicks-Wilson

  S M A L L C U R E S

  I. D I A G N O S I S

  the first cardiologist

  i ever saw

  explained to me

  that unfortunately,

  someone can only possibly love you

  as much as their heart

  knows how to love.

  the problem is, she sighed—

  we cleanse

  our bodies

  but not our hearts

  enough.

  and so,

  sometimes there is so much pain in both,

  loving and leaving

  feel the same.

  but she said,

  honey, don’t worry—

  there are some of us

  who are born

  with holes in our hearts.

  there are others

  who have theirs

  carved out much later.

  every ache

  has its own purpose.

  and,

  everything has a heart.

  even the moon.

  sometimes, most times,

  it’s not the whole of you that dies.

  but parts.

  and only you attend the funeral.

  the people we once loved.

  the ones who said it back.

  eventually you’ll learn

  how to live

  with your ghosts.

  everything we try to forget,

  our blood remembers.

  i cannot tell you where to put your pain.

  i can only tell you

  that this pain is not your main destination.

  it is. and it is:

  one point on a map

  of a thousand others.

  a place you have come to.

  a place you will leave.

  for you are only

  traveling through hurt,

  and sometimes

  it all looks the same

  because hurt

  has many stops.

  but darling, i promise

  you are aching to arrive somewhere

  so much better.

  remember,

  you were light first.

  the body came

  way after.

  and darling,

  broken or not,

  our bodies

  are our only vessels.

  in this life,

  we choose

  what we will carry.

  so, i didn’t tell her

  how often i think—

  maybe if we would have had the same wounds

  we could have healed each other.

  the moon waited for me.

  why couldn’t you?

  loving you is easy.

  loving you is muscle memory.

  i loved. and i loved.

  until all that was left

  was bone.

  someone once told me—

  once love is made,

  it exists someplace.

  even without the lovers.

  it’s not just ghosts

  that come back.

  the living do

  too.

  with you,

  i always felt like the ocean.

  whole and vast and yours

  when you said,

  i am the only thing

  you have ever loved.

  secretly, i was convinced

  i would be the only body of water

  to never see a wave.

  so when you gathered

  all the empty shells you’d laid

  and surely left,

  well—that’s when i knew:

  something outside of you

  shouldn’t be able to make you feel

  so big.

  i miss you in places i didn’t even know existed.

  come back.

  come back.

  return

  whatever peace of me

  you took.

  she said—

  honey,

  do not let your beautiful mind become a battlefield.

  just because someone has shown you their weapons

  does not mean you have to accept the war.

  on
the last day of love,

  give yourself permission

  to remember the first.

  darling,

  your soil is too rich

  to let words that aren’t

  deeply rooted in your truth

  soak in.

  all words,

  like us,

  are ninety percent water

  you can choose

  to drown

  in the ones that hurt

  or,

  you can choose

  to let them

  cleanse you.

  last night,

  when i was wandering through

  the deep, thick forests of your eyes,

  you asked me what i was thinking

  and surprised, i quickly painted you

  a picture-perfect lie

  about how your eyes remind me

  of the color of bark.

  actually, i was wondering

  if branches on trees

  ever get tired of reaching,

  and if they do,

  then so can i.

  like skin

  or fears

  or dreams,

  little by little,

  we can shed

  what we love.

  not everything

  or everyone

  can keep growing

  with us.

  sometimes we love the wrong people,

  and that’s okay.

  you shouldn’t have to

  break your self

  and move your pieces.

  if they were designed for you,

  they would fit.

  remember,

  the heart is not symmetrical,

  and neither is love

  or the stars.

  but take it,

  and align what you do.

  align what you do

  with what you long to un-feel.

  every. time.

  in the grand scheme of love,

  it’s true, that you, yes you

  may become a small,

  map-less country:

  indistinct,

  landlocked,

  unchartered.

  but darling,

  don’t ever be afraid

  to take permanent ink,

  and draw your boundaries.

  in fact,

  outline your entire body

  if you have to.

  honey, you haven’t got time to break him open

  to see if he has love inside there. leave him—

  just like that—and see if he shows it.

  you deserve a love

  without footnotes,

  asterisks, or question marks.

  tell me you won’t make your soul a cemetery

  for all the things that could have been.

  i wish somebody had told me

  that loving someone,

  knowing how to love someone,

  and someone loving you back

  are three entirely different things.

  sometimes,

  loving yourself will mean

  un-loving someone else.

  we aren’t born with hurt

  rattling inside our bones.

  no.

  we learn to hurt

  in the ways hurt people

  teach us to.

  she said,

  darling,

  you feel heavy

  because you are

  too full of truth.

  open your mouth more.

  let the truth exist

  somewhere other than

  inside your body.

  honey,

  there is no shame in ending a war.

  and i said yes,

  but—

  every mourning

  without you

  is like a new death.

  the truest poems

  are not written,

  they are felt.

  words remind us.

  i think i

  breathed you

  too deeply,

  my lungs

  couldn’t

  forget you.

  on those

  nights

  when your

  heart

  is hungry,

  i wonder

  if you

  remember

  how i

  once

  broke

  my self

  in two.

  just

  to give

  half

  to you.

  they say

  that the body repairs itself at night when we but sleep.

  i’ve always wondered, though,

  when do we repair our souls?

  i am covered in the memories of you.

  i wish i knew

  how to love

  in pencil.

  the years

  do not pass.

  they just find

  places to live,

  quietly, inside us.

  she reminds me—

  you are too full,

  too alive,

  to be pining after

  half-empty ghosts

  to come back

  or,

  to love you.

  eventually the day will come

  when i will take these chapters,

  each named after you

  and place them

  somewhere far

  on the tallest shelf

  in the very back of my head.

  i have already begun

  collecting the dust

  i will conceal your name with.

  nothing.

  no, nothing,

  should make you

  pluck the stars

  from your sky.

  we are small suns.

  each day lighting

  or blinding

  our own paths.

  i am done

  mourning

  the living.

  the most painful of heartbreaks

  is missing somebody

  who doesn’t exist.

  it took you years

  to write his name

  on every inch

  of your softest walls

  so,

  it may take you

  just as many

  to un-carve him from them.

  there is blood,

  but also stars

  in your bones.

  you’ll break.

  you’ll bleed.

  you’ll shine.

  there has to be a bottom to this sadness.

  there has to be a bottom to this sadness

  because even the bluest sky

  stops falling.

  and one day,

  this sadness

  will become a song

  you just know some

  of the words to.

  on one side,

  there is loss.

  on the other,

  a revolution.

  darling,

  survival isn’t something you do.

  survival is what your heart is made of.

  II. T R E A T M E N T

  day one

  if your appetite seems to have left with them,

  or you find yourself in a strange kitchen

  with an insatiable appetite for all the wrong things,

  remember, to never
let that heart of yours go hungry.

  darling, feed your heart

  at least three portions of poems a day.

  poems with pulses louder than the voices

  telling her it will not be okay.

  it will be okay.

  day two

  in spite of what you might think,

  people have never been pills

  or long-term cures,

  and swallowing them now

  bit by bit or even whole

  will not make you more alive

  or any better.

  so when the nights get rough,

  do not reach for a body

  like a bottle in the darkness.

  they were not made

  to save you.

  day three

  learn from the moon

  that darkness

  is just an invitation

  for you to create

  your own light.

  day four

  when we are healing,

  our clocks should be set differently.

  in fact, our clocks should not be set at all.

  and time should only exist in two measures: