Poetry by Alyssa Goldberg

Tatiana Vdb CC




Hold to Self-Destruct 

Whenever I feel pain I feel wronged by the universe. Fuck you, the pain says, you’re alive. Fuck you, I know. I’m doing what I can to stop that, clawing out my teeth and prying open my eyes, glue seeping out like leaky pipes. Every time the feeling sinks in I find myself questioning what I did to deserve it, like pain is selective and only arrives after you’ve done something wrong. I try to be a good person, mainly just by telling myself I am, but keep telling yourself it’s your fault and eventually your body will believe it. I took off my hands and they shut the door in my face. I stopped picking up the slack. I gave up on being good, chose to let disaster clean me of my sins. I'm writing this to you to say: I am not half the man you think I am. If you find my hands running amok, give them a good home. Show them tenderness. I miss you and I think of you when I can follow my feet. I stay in bed other days and weed through the soil of my abdomen. When you are around I leave only good. I don't believe in anything and it's wonderful.



​

Alyssa Goldberg is a writer and photographer living in New York. Her work appears in Teen Vogue, HAD, Bullshit Lit, Full Mood Mag, Sounds of Saving, Pleaser Magazine, and elsewhere.  She holds a BS in Global Public Health and Applied Psychology from NYU and will be pursuing a Master of Science in Media, Medicine, and Health at Harvard Medical School this fall. Find her on Twitter @alyssaegoldberg or at alyssaegoldberg.com.