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Literature Text
i treated your affection like pills
to take for my own benefit.
this has taught me that people make
poor bandages. skin is not meant to cushion
fragility, and bones
make for poor support,
when i'm at my most spineless-
consuming you in short doses,
extending a prescription
i made-believed i needed.
there is still the aftertaste of apologies
lingering in the back of my throat,
difficult to dry-swallow-
my wounds should have never been yours
to burden. and i should have known better
than to taper you off with natural defenses:
the act of cutting out instead
of carving in. i have never found
the ways to formulate
how to make this better:
to explain what made it so easy
to be so parasitic-
my recovery should have never been hinged
on your undoing.
when the only thing i left you with
was silence, i wonder how i could dare
tell myself that my artform is speech.
to take for my own benefit.
this has taught me that people make
poor bandages. skin is not meant to cushion
fragility, and bones
make for poor support,
when i'm at my most spineless-
consuming you in short doses,
extending a prescription
i made-believed i needed.
there is still the aftertaste of apologies
lingering in the back of my throat,
difficult to dry-swallow-
my wounds should have never been yours
to burden. and i should have known better
than to taper you off with natural defenses:
the act of cutting out instead
of carving in. i have never found
the ways to formulate
how to make this better:
to explain what made it so easy
to be so parasitic-
my recovery should have never been hinged
on your undoing.
when the only thing i left you with
was silence, i wonder how i could dare
tell myself that my artform is speech.
Literature
(How funny, or maybe perfect it is,)
to think I am meat
and spirit
while I eat both.
Yet,
I persist
as matter and
nothing.
Of the static,
that door
still gaping,
a hole
in conception,
would it be real
if I understood it?
If I could just grasp
what I'm not
understanding?
Because language, even
these words, are
nothing.
Nothing outside
me.
Nothing before
me.
Maybe less
after me.
And
the idea?
Nothing.
Nothing but
meat
and even
the spirit
stammers
against
infinity,
against
inevitability,
against
itself.
Literature
Breaking
One day, you will open the cupboard
to find a wine glass or some Tupperware
and the world will, without warning
or alarm, roll off the edge of the shelf
and coming crashing down.
The oceans will splash onto the linoleum,
onto the rug. All the dust in all the deserts
will rain down onto the couch and coffee table,
the hills will crumble, the mountains will break,
all the windows in all the cities will shatter
and fall, a thousand dangerous miles of glass
glittering on your kitchen floor.
Everything will hush.
Exhale the breath you are holding,
and go look for a dust pan, for a broom.
Literature
tree
It is okay to be getting your hair trimmed for the first time in eighteen months.
It is fine to let yourself inflate a sad story and then another,
like pink gum bubbles
In the direction of anyone who will listen.
You can now chew over the last year and a half of your life
from a distance, when you’re at the hairdressers,
after she notices the short patches by your sideburns with an inquisitive look.
You can hold back the tears with relative ease,
as if telling of someone else’s illness,
rolling the grief around in your mouth like a gobstopper
whist her acrylic nails gently graze the backs of your ears.
You can use an entire palm
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found this in my poetry folder, i was supposed to write this for napowrimo during the string of poems i was supposed to write on topics i often don't like talking about. the ending is a little rough, with the last line inspired by a line from an Andrea Gibson poem, "trellis." I'll probably redo the ending later on.
i'm still sorry you had to take the brunt of me being at the lowest point in my life. i'm so, so, so sorry.
i'm still sorry you had to take the brunt of me being at the lowest point in my life. i'm so, so, so sorry.
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the self-loathing in this...the self-awareness.