I know what I want to be
But I don’t really know how to be it
I have no guide, no bearded old man telling me that “love” is the answer to everything
I don’t know what kind of work is valuable
Or how to measure the amount of time that makes my writing worthwhile for the day
I am lost
In the endless online applications
Where I am not a face, but a list
Of certificates and skills
I believe to be made for a job,
But they tell I do not have the minimum
So I am dying
On a white mattress, sunk in from routine
Letting the seconds I have left to live
Slip by uselessly
Being angry instead of proactive
And complaining instead of loving
But with this headache comes the sorry truth
I am only human
And at this moment I care very little about the big picture
Because I am so unhappy in my tiny frame
A night drive
In the lonely darkness, my headlights dominate
The music hums in through the speakers and I turn the dial
Higher it goes, the volume vibrates
The sound spills, pressurizing the space
It fills the car up so much that eventually it’s filling me
Art replaces the emptiness
HAVE YOU HEARD Sara Bareilles’s cover of Sia’s Chandelier, because it is goddamn AMAZING.
We wrote songs to save our lives— We had to make sense of who we were and why we struggled and why we felt things more acutely than we were supposed to.
There is this odd trend
of taken women
saying they are too much,
and how the men they love
are amazing for dealing with them.
Love should not be a responsibility.
You should not have to deal with me.
Just because a woman is wild
does not mean she is difficult.
He is not a martyr for loving me
through the good
and not so good.
Some mornings I will wake up swinging,
you do not get a gold star
for still loving me.
Some mornings I will wake up like a lamb,
you do not get a gold star
for loving me.
I am not a hurricane of a girl,
you always have the chance to leave.
“Why aren’t you coming to the party?”
Too many reasons
“Don’t you want to hang out with us anymore?”
How to respond? To choose between honesty and kindness
A people that have lied and excluded, ignored
Left me to rot in a taxi cab,
The yellow container that contains all those that cannot be contained,
The keeper of vomit and human filth,
The seats impregnated with cigarettes and lust,
The unimportant will take this ride alone, I take this ride alone
“You’re good to get home, right?”
How to respond to that question
The intonation of a burden, me, this thing they lug around, like baggage thrown in the trunk
What for? Pity? Sex? Laughs?
Certainly not for love,
A dignity I lack
Due to my past
I refuse to act
In a manner that reflects my own self-image
Because in my mind I am all things of sophistication and admiration
But here I am, the stinking slut of the city,
The attention whore, the filthy liar
And as you touch me, the stench of beer in the air,
I forget to remember how I will feel tomorrow
A brain so underwater, I am being pulled under
Powerless against this current
My internal screams not heard, my words coming out of me as merely bubbles
“No, no, please!”
Don’t you know me better by now?
Don’t you love me enough, a little, at all,
I find myself stretching out against the day, wondering
If the coffee will appease me,
And the written word comfort me
I take a breath of life, waiting, to really start living
Putting everything on hold—my passions
Set aside, telling myself
It is just a silly hobby
Yet I am unable to let go,
Cannot stop narrating my life
Inside my mind I reach out for something more,
An elegant string of words that will finally explain
What I am feeling and why I feel it
There will be time to write later, I am so sure of it
Let me just get this done first