Daisy Girl You - A Triptych Poem

Hey, everyone. It's been awhile, hasn't it? I do apologize for the lack of content lately; during the month of March, I made a very conscious effort to unplug more frequently, spend less time on social media, and replace screen time with book time. I must say, it worked wonders. Quite apart from getting caught up on all of my school work, I was able to dive into (and finish!) a novel for pure enjoyment ("Crazy Rich Asians"), which I haven't done in quite a long time. Little breaks are good in that way. They provide us with the opportunity to take a deep breath, reevaluate the things we wish to spend our time on, and tune into ourselves. Finding things to do that make you forget to check your phone are always marvelous. But now, of course, I am back. And happily so, let me tell you. I've missed this.

Today in my creative writing class, a few of my friends and I shared triptych poems we'd written over spring break. A triptych is traditionally a work of art, particularly a painting or photograph, which is sectioned into three panels. If you've ever browsed the wall art in IKEA, you've likely stumbled across a triptych; I'm pretty sure they have one of orchid blossoms or something. See, triptych art is trendy. It's cool. It forces the audience to truly immerse themselves in each panel, one at a time. Simultaneously, a viewer sees the piece as a whole, thanks to an overarching theme. Triptychs are unique in that they focus on a smaller scale while also presenting the bigger picture. So naturally, IKEA sells them.

But for us, the assigned triptychs were poems. This could mean a poem with three stanzas, a poem with three parts that were thematically connected, or in the case of my dear friend Lily, a poem formatted into a brochure. Our pieces all turned out differently, which was pretty amazing. There is little in the world I love more than hearing writers share their work. It's scary to throw something you've composed into the world. You fear judgment. What if your piece isn't good enough? What if it's too long or too short? What if... what if... what if. But the incredible people in my creative writing class do it on a daily basis; they take risks. They dangle on the edge of a cliff. They face rejection in order to share their voices. That's pretty beautiful, is it not?

After sharing, my friends suggested I publish my triptych, titled Daisy Girl You, on my blog. So here we are. This is me, cracking jokes about IKEA and publishing my poem. I'm actually a wee bit proud of this piece, to be quite honest. As I'm rarely genuinely proud of the things I write, I am happy to present you with something that is near a dear to my heart. I do hope you enjoy it. And now, please, settle back, as The Avocado and Me presents "Daisy Girl You":

Daisy Girl You  - A Triptych Poem by Maya

Part 1. When She Comes

In the way the high tide succumbs to low tide and back again,

In the way the sun melts into inky black ombré, there was, undoubtedly,

A defining time. A moment. If you had looked closely enough,

Perhaps you would’ve caught it. A lightning bug twinkling in between

The blades, an odd sort of metallic, turmeric smell lingering in the air,

A bright flash of topaz across the red canvas. It would’ve been small,

Mind you, and that’s why you missed it. That’s why they missed it.

When you see something touch something smell something are

Something every day, desensitization is inevitable. In the way the chef’s

Fingers become accustomed to the fox-quick heat. In the way a child

Doesn’t notice the lines, muddy yellow rain boot trenches, in her mother’s

Face deepen. When something comes as slow, as steadily as this, when

A creature is nourished, nurtured like this, you don’t notice she’s come

And made a home in you until the day she beats down your front door.

“Hello,” she said. You did not answer. You ignored her. She didn’t mind.

It was more comfortable this way, her burrowing through your striated

Fibers, dining on the rolls and curves that were made of your fondest

Strawberry-sundae summer night memories, hollowing out a bed in

Your bones. It was more comfortable this way, without resistance.

Without acceptance understanding or control, but with the slightest dash

Of denial.

Part 2. When She’s Found

In the way the astronomer saw and named the stars, in the way the detective

Push-pinned a red pin of push into the pieces, connecting the clues, there

Was, undoubtedly, something to be found. After all, when something is,

Something can, absolutely, be found out. This is logic, pure and simple.

It was the lab coat lady and her lavender perfume who discovered her, nestled

Somewhere between your empty eyes and brittle hair, or perhaps behind

The protruding staircase of ribs, or the shallow basins rosy cheeks used to call home.

Lab coat lady and her lavender perfume say it out loud, they name her, and you

See your father’s face pale and your mother’s lines, muddy yellow rain boot trenches,

Deepen. Her face looks so cracked, so broken, her china collection on the floor.

She had one job, your mother thought, one job, to keep you, Daisy Girl You, safe and

Healthy and happy and strong, and she had failed in that, too. It hurts you to see them

Like this. So worried. So scared. So sad. You think, this is the first time I have seen

Father cry. Yes, his ocean blue eyes, the ones Mother paints acrylic in the springtime,

Are brimming now, are spilling over, salt to the sea. Salt. Salt to the sea. The creature

Inside you roars, “no, no, pay them no attention, they are overreacting, lab coat lady

Lavender perfume cotton ball lady is wrong, no, no, me, just listen to me, you are fine.”

But you are not fine. You feel cold, cold like yellow rain boots left in the rain, cold like

China, left alone in the glass case, cold like the Oregon ocean. Ocean blue eyes.

Salt to the sea. Salt. Salt to the sea. You are cold. The doctor asks if you are ready

For the long road ahead. If you’ve packed your warmest wool coat for the journey.

You nod, very slowly. Her, the one inside of you, the one that is not you, is not yours,

And will not claim you, screams.

Part 3. When You Return

In the way time seems to slip fluidly through your fingers, in the way the winter bleeds

Into springtime and Mother’s acrylics merge with the canvas, the days seem to blur by.

The cold recedes, gradually now, and your chocolate hair grows thicker, gradually now,

And it is long enough that you can braid it, if you want to. It’s never been this long. It

Makes you happy. The wells between your ribs are filling up again. You aren’t oblivious

To this. It makes you less happy than your hair does, and every time you pass a mirror,

You still turn to the side, still lift your hospital gown, check to see if your stomach is still

Flat. When you do this, Agnes reminds you that nothing flat was ever exciting. This is why

People recede into their three-dimensional imagination-rich books when passing plains

On a road trip. This is why people look up from their books, out of the window, when they

Pass rounded, snow-capped mountains. Nothing flat was ever exciting. You try to

Remember this, but it’s hard sometimes. She hasn’t screamed at you for a while now,

She’s learning to shut her mouth, and good riddance, and she watches helplessly as you

Labor away, shoveling calcium and minerals back into the hollows of your bones.

Her bed is gone, and you’re back in yours. Your bed, not the hospital, IV, monitored-by-Agnes

all hours of the day and night bed. Your bed, with oceans Mother embroidered, salt to the sea oceans,
With a cup of Father’s chamomile tea on the night table. And guess what else?
You’re singing songs into your purple hair brush again. You’re going biking with your friends again,
And you’re taking a challenge math class over the summer. Because you like these things.
Because you’re making your own bed. You’re here to stay, and that’s beautiful. In the way that they
Always do, the daffodils have bloomed again. In the way they don’t always do, you are recovering.
There will never be a definite ‘recovered;’ lonesome midnight bathroom floors and comparison and
Your mind will make sure of that. But you, Daisy Girl You, you are recovering. She packs her carpet bag,
And you see her to the door.

In the way the poet seeks closure, in the way the small child plays flashlight tag on hot,

Strawberry sundae summer’s nights, a perfect way to end is sought. It’s never found, for

When something is not, it cannot be found. This is logic, pure and simple. But slamming the

Door in her face is always an option, so this is what you do. Oh, that felt good. You sigh.

You smile. You look around your room, you look at oceans and cobwebs and yellow rain boots,

And in this moment, in this defining time, you know one thing, with a mildly unnerving certainty:

You have returned.

National Eating Disorders Awareness Helpline: (800) 931-2237

Thank you for tuning in today, dear reader. It truly means a lot to me. If you or a loved one are suffering

from an eating disorder, please do not hesitate to seek help - you are valid, what you are going through is
valid, and recovery is always possible. Sending all my love.

Yours with gratitude,

Maya

Photo by Pien Muller on Unsplash,

Photo by Martin Widenka on Unsplash,

Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash, Photo by Matthew LeJune on Unsplash