streaming service

the light of the television hits my glasses just right— migraine. it is 1:04am on a saturday night and i am alone as usual this is nothing new— the weekends are for me a lone motorcyclist in the night revs past the canal banks by my house is that the ghost of who you were in 2017? somewhere in a suburb in washington that very same bike gathers rust in your garage the same way your silver promise ring will tarnish with disuse

every show on our shared hulu account is about love— breaking up at a wedding, finding love on an island, deciding if you can marry someone in 90 days or less our love has disintegrated into nothing more than the fact that our profiles in the shared account are still pet names that neither of us dares to change and the simple knowledge that i am using this account without paying my half and you will let me at the very least until you find someone new

maybe modern love is sharing the netflix password whispering those three little words “bushdid9/11” (or is that four words) (that is not really his password, please don’t try to hack our accounts) and realizing that like Antony and Cleopatra shared streaming services are a blood pact until the very end you will have access to my netflix account until one of us dies tragically and i will use the hulu with indiscriminate zeal

the stark reality of it all is that i would rather have access to my little sitcoms than a bunch of roses anyway and the bouquet of passwords that you have not changed since 2011 does not decay

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Author’s Note

I struggled to write this author’s note because there is no way to not sound cheesy when you say something about how we are an amalgamation of everyone we have ever loved, and the people that we love contribute so much to who we are. But that’s the truth. So here it is, cheese and all. patchwork hearts. Because sometimes it feels like my heart is stitched together with little pieces of thread that my friends and loved ones have pulled off of their own jackets. And I think that is universal, because we all know what it is to pick up a quirk or a word or a food preference by watching someone beloved do the same thing. This collection explores how love—romantic, platonic, fraternal, filial—leaves an indelible mark on each of us as we meet the people who make us ourselves. The poems are bits and pieces of moments that I have experienced or observed, with each person I have known contributing something to who I am now. I want to dedicate this to everyone I love, and everyone who loves or has loved me, because without them there would be no book. And also to my brother, Lucas, who stared at me benignly and listened attentively every time I read and reread these poems out loud at 11pm. Most importantly, I want to dedicate this to Christopher, whose death taught me that love transcends the boundaries of space, time, and reason.

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Humorous and self-effacing, patchwork hearts is the collection to read if you still harbor secret feelings for your ex, have a rational or irrational hatred of dating apps, or fancy yourself a bit of a romantic, with or without a capital “R.”

This collection examines the bloody sutures of love and identity in a wry reminder that we all carry with us bits and pieces of everyone we’ve ever loved (metaphorically). In short, if you’re a bit of a curmudgeon, but have a soft side, this chapbook goes out to you.

Natt Bartell currently lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and is attending Queen’s University for a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing and spending a lot of time staring at the lush green hills and towering cathedrals. In addition to this, Natt has a Master’s Degree in English from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, and a needy dog named Marlowe, who loves going on long walks. Most of Natt’s writing— which covers everything from heartbreak to which snacks are appropriate for a bank heist—can be found on Medium.