I’m posting this publicly because this is one of the kindest things anyone has said about my work in a long time. I’m very glad you enjoy it. I work very hard on developing clarity and meaning out of the muck that is my thoughts.
I’ve been getting healthier. I’m eating again. Haven’t thrown up anything in a few days. The loud tenor note of stress has quieted somewhat. This is all good news. It seems, for now, the worst of it is over.
I feel as though I am returning from war. Every day, I am capable of a few minutes more genuine happiness. For the most part, things feel hollow. I walk outside and the air is cooling. I can fit comfortably in small t-shirts now. I have shrunk.
I wonder, sometimes, if the silence ending would even help. 2014 has been built to teach me to survive. It has pushed me to my breaking point. Past it. I stumbled home last night, drunk and high, and the streets were empty. I wanted a car to hit me again. Why?
I think I keep digging to see how little I need. How horrific shit can get for me. To prove that I can still get up, that I don’t need what I want.
I don’t need happiness to survive. I don’t need safety. I don’t need stability or hope. I can press on through the goddamn darkness.
I hate “universal truth” jokes. Like those really sweaty red-faced white dudes in polos stand up with solo cups of beer and say something like “Women, huh??” And “I’m a guy! You know, you know, what being a guy is, come on.” It’s that like water cooler boring ass talk that people make everywhere in America and it is so boring I could run my head over with a bmx bike.
i have forgotten the easy ways to breathe.
they tell me i am not the same. i know this.
i know that this me is not the best me.
the beautiful song inside me has gone quiet.
my body expects me to keep moving.
i am beginning the see the sun and moon
moving together in the sky. it is an illusion
of perspective, but so is everything.
i laugh black smoke. i cut the night
like construction paper.
There is a beast in the night sky. He knows what must be known about this hour: we have chosen nothing, our bodies are becoming weak. There is a guttural sound from outside my periphery: he is laughing. I join him. It begins to rain, a dense cascade splitting open the sky. I ask him about the day that I will die.
For a moment, behind the tree-line, I believe that I can see him. He is darkness, farther than the darkness that we know, a knife-mark cutting through the page. His voice is like a whisper, but each syllable feels like universal law.
You are already dying, he speaks. You are already rotting.
The rain is a thunder all its own, smashing down on southern pavement, drowning deep the cracks, the little lives of moths and ants extinguished by the flood.
This brick & green city
may just be my dog-porch,
it may just be the scissors
to my loom.
Moth-clouds save me
from the church bell cries,
save me from the yellow
of the night.
I post a selfie with a caption about this weird anxiety sickness thing I’ve been having. It gets reblogged by guysidfuck.(com) with the caption replaced by the website URL. Brilliant.