The Water Tower

a poem by McKenna Ashlyn

I think I lost my laugh somewhere off the highway stretch.
Chain link fences sighing sideways framing the summer dusk.
Inviting nocturnals from the woods and burrows.

Beautiful bleached pigtails said Why are you always laughing?
Said Your laugh is an unbridled orchestra we are not sitting to watch.
I don’t have tickets, girl. Said I can tell you don’t know what you are laughing at.

How many hours can a girl examine her laugh? Autopsy every living part of you.
Even the noises you make. Even your happiness is up for debate.
Hm, yeah, I don’t know. Should we debate?

I heard you laugh like that in the grip of a girl you say you love. She said She doesn’t love you. Said She is changing and you are disgusting. Said The church’s doors are always open. Remember the flowers she got you? The bear? I left him in the hills—the water tower.

Last I remember he got up and left. Limped away, like everything else.
I can leave too.
Look, look I can leave too. I can start walking and never stop.
I can swallow my laugh whole. I can hear it wheeze inside me. I can be a whimper.
I can be whatever you want of me. All I’ve ever been good at is pretending.

Remember the aquarium? Where you saw all of this for what it is?
Trapped behind your own fucking smile. You saw the bubbles, the glass and pounding, the inhale and hold it together, girl. Play the part, girl.

You felt the tearing and burning and still, you smiled. Smiled with tears streaming,
teeth clenched like a once-tamed wild thing.
You held the door open.
Got stuck holding the door open. There were rivers
of people and they didn’t notice
your tears behind that plastered thing slapped across your mouth.
I’m so tired, but the people keep coming and I am holding the door.
Holding the door and smiling. Quietly. Like a good girl.
Like a good girl who laughs not like she is meant to.