Back home, the girls are not soft —
they pit peaches with their teeth,
drink sadness like they’re starving.
They always dance alone,
listen to songs with lyrics
about strawberry wine.
They blossom like beer bottles,
wear october on their shins,
split open, screaming —
a foreign rose
for a fight.
Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again- and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
E. E. Cummings, Since Feeling Is First (via colporteur
i can see my dad’s veins
ripe through the side of his face
sometimes i think he screams
to hear the sound of his own voice
or cancel out mine
i like the way you don’t threaten
suicide on family vacations
you said your greatest fear
was becoming a bad father
i’d kiss your corpse but
if i saw you clench your jaw
i think i wouldn’t love you anymore
I put something in my mouth that is roughly pill shaped. It’s not a pill, just a small egg someone painted many different colors. A family of birds grows up in my stomach. Their beaks are made of charcoal. They make long sketches of you & pin them to the walls.
Bob Schofield, “Our Lives Sit Far Apart & Turn Into A Kind Of Wilderness,” published in Medium
I call it sex
because I don’t know
how else to say
terrified of dying.
everything. It says:
you will not get your wings this way
not the wings you want
and you want
more than anybody.
I have wanted
many unfair things.
What is most unfair
is that the Earth is still okay
with me being here
I think, and even
you have asked me
not to die, but I swim
in neon pools
that are happy
to kill me.
You must not reduce yourself to a puddle just because the person you like is afraid to swim and you are a fierce sea to them; because there will be someone who was born with love of the waves within their blood, and they will look at you with fear and respect.
T.B. LaBerge // Things I’m Still Learning at 25 (via tblaberge
Either way, this world
has picked me enough times for its madness vase
for me to know sanity is not
running from the window when the lightning comes.
It’s turning thunder into grace,
knowing sometimes the break in your heart
is like the hole in the flute.
Sometimes it’s the place
where the music comes through.
Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper. I didn’t want to write these pages until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones. I do not have that luxury. I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.
What if I told you
each time you whispered
my name it felt like a door
I could place a hand against,
feel how warm it was, as if
the world on the other side,
yours, was the one on fire?
I. I was the first person to teach you that love was not always a white light to a ship lost at sea.
II. On my worst days, the sky was a festering wound that wouldn’t heal. I didn’t want to be that to you.
III. On my worst days, you were the only word I could say without clenching my fists.
IV. I really did love you, I just couldn’t claw my way out of the ground to do it properly.
V. None of this was your fault.
VI. I’m sorry I was your lighthouse. I’m sorry you couldn’t see the wall of rocks on my shore.
Surprisingly, perfectionists are often procrastinators, as they can tend to think “I don’t have the right skills or resources to do this perfectly now, so I won’t do it at all.”