it was wrong to say "mine"

it was holiday season and i'd just took part in something warm involving dishes of food from all over the place in an art studio with a well-meaning, goofy art teacher with curly white hair and and. after that. chelsea and i at the bottom of a dirty stairwell, the very bottom, very dirty, this is a public high school remember, and there are holiday carollers reverberating throughout and i'm cold because the door to the courtyard is open and it's WINTER and my pink coat is cuddly but it's thin. and we're on our knees. and i'm realizing out loud what has happened, what is happening with him. i am trying to speak to chelsea in sentences about adam my adam. and i haven't really thought directly about what everything recent really meant for these days. i cannot bring him here. i can't bring him to me, i can't bring him back. he's not going to come anymore no, no longer and i. hadn't thought. i hadn't thought about it. this brick wall, this yellow disgusting paint, this cinder block dust all around. and beautiful liz reiff who worked to make me glow a bit. and chelsea's skepticism for a second, and chelsea listening, i think and...and i can't hold myself tight enough inside, and he's not going to be here anymore. "her name is alyssa, yes." not even my words, not even my words are going to try to fix things now. i sent him words and feathers in a sort of package trying to explain what couldn't be translated proper to this boy and it's not that he doesn't understand anyway, it's that he understands all of this perfectly well and he is fine. he is nearly healthy. he's almost made it out of here, and there really isn't much violence in sight. and i'm pooling pebbling trembly and stiff and this is lunchtime and it's the holidays so there's still so much to eat but i can't eat anything right now. adam. he's not slipping away so much as just completely regrown and there must be fresh air because he tells me he doesn't write poems anymore, or go on long walks about around pipelines and the frigid dingy beauty of abandoned warehouses. and breaking in. god. breaking in. there will be no more vandalism.

and my heart is betrayed by no one but my own and there's cracking ice cracking that shattered horror sense of plates of ice panes of window and . and. it's rising though submerged and . and.

chelsea says to me, "i never realized before, but your eyes are brown."