untitled 2

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I wake up at 7:30 AM every day, sometimes I can manage to half sleep until 8:30,
I wish I was done writing about heartbreak.
I’m tired of looking at other people’s messy bookshelves and knowing that they don’t read their books,
although mine isn’t much better — it’s essentially nonexistent.
I have piles of books everywhere, with empty vases and forgotten keepsakes resting on top.
In New Jersey I remember tiptoeing into my grandfather’s bedroom to find loose paper to write on, barely 7 years old.
He had stacks of books and blank paper everywhere on the floor and I think maybe that informed my organizational impulses, or lack there of
Maybe I want to know about everyone because I know too much about myself. Sometimes I ask people for gossip about people they know, that I have no connection with or idea about.
But still, I want to hear something.
I constructed a fridge word magnet poem, it might be rearranged by now,
and I didn’t have the correct kind of connector words to do it the way I wanted to, but I was bent over and immersed, searching for the words. And it was nice.
One orbits ruin
I like words that sum up absence and loss.
I like words that are destructive.
I like to repurpose words.
I like when they have friction and I like when they hurt.
I’m not the first to say English is a great language to write in. I know it’s an unpopular sentiment but it is true:
It is a malleable language and you are required to interact with static symbols to evoke something.
And I know this isn’t unique to the English language and it’s why I love writing and reading every way, but it’s what I know.
I can’t forgive myself and I cannot forgive anyone else:
He was searching my face and could tell something was wrong but I’ve already used enough words, every way; I’ve used action. I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth.
It’s better to disappear.
There are too many internal things about me. I used to pore over my fathers medical books when I was barely literate to look at the gory surgery photos of diseased bodies.
People misinterpret you in an instant:
R said years ago that I’m beautiful and invite people to look and then punish them for doing exactly that.
It’s true.
But it’s also more:
I want to be drowned in an essence that isn’t me and isn’t shared —
and I want to also be the one that drowns another
It is not an impulse I can tame and I can’t try to anymore —
What else is truth but reducing something to its is?