are you ready for Christmas?
says the man in the green puffer vest
sitting around the table with his white family
A golden retriever passes by
where the hell am I
I’m not ready for christmas
I don’t know where my family is
I’m still recovering from a summer
spent in my own rot
there are no signs of my going crazy
I’m only going on long runs
staring at the hyper reality of the
crunchy dark brown leaves on
the somehow still green grass
Tag: poem
unsent
caught somewhere between
the mundanity, grief,
and trying to save
someone’s life, a past lover
but drinking coffee and
crying instead
last days of Nov.
the spiritual experience of opening up a window
it’s time to start packing
place all of the books that you have
left in the cardboard boxes
look under the bed
sweep all of the remnants
of life lived in this room into the dust pan
here i am staring at the accumulation
of dust, dog hair, the corner of a
condom wrapper, a cotton ball
I continue to stare at this like
its art I continue to dissect
and remember
holding on to every piece
every memory from the summer
the waterfall, the overdose
can be seen in the gray
the blue bag from the time that
I bought someone a gift that I thought
they needed but they had plenty
but left me the bag
now it’s time to roll up the rug
moving all of the feelings
and things my body into a
new room
be happy, baby
stay soft yet strong
let that radiate from your
sunken eyes
made me no
molded me
crazy
the pain
made me crazy
now I distance myself
from people like me
women like me
who say innocent
things in order to be dismissed
numb the trauma
numb the trauma don’t rehash
it hide it, but numb it
don’t let it show
don’t , it only makes people feel bad
for you
for themselves
for the state of society
we only feel this pain and then
we die
am i
I only have time to creep on
social media I only
have time to stare at someone
from my past
my adult life, my twenties
can be summed up to what
today was
I woke up at 9am with the November sun
beaming through broken white blinds
I layed in bed thinking about where
it went wrong
I forced myself to journal three morning
pages they always seem
to be about me missing someone
then I went to the clinic because
HPV was a concern
turns out it’s just a skin irritation
the doctor reported this to
me with so much joy
I kept that joy for a few hours
after I left
then I shoved peanut butter cups
in my mouth while silently
color coding a rack of long sleeve
shirts thinking about my place
in capitalism thinking about
the fall of capitalism
feeling the band aid from the blood
that i had drawn earlier suffocate
the crevice of my arm
I got home showered and then
ripped an inch of my skin off
while taking it off
raw red
thin
I go to bed
a bundle
Alone for a while with myself.
My body feels like it is empty.
I’m too weak and fragile to go on.
I need someone to feed me and to push my hair back.
I’m looking for a love.
I’m looking for love and nurture to
come towards me in full force.
But maybe I just have to give
it to someone else
then I’ll be able to feel it
give it to feel it
I’m trying to figure out the world
but there is no key
just Bob Dylan singing out of key
about his lack of friends
and that at least he has his voice
and guitar. I get that at least I have my voice
within all of the changes
that I entangle myself in.
It all hurts.
I thought had been cured with CBD, but it all hurts.
I feel like branches
holding up a teal dress.
Or like a ghost
who does the same routine
a ghost with ocd walking the streets
looking for a ghost friend from the past.
What can fill this void.
Who can fill this void.
Maybe having a child.
But that would require someone to have one with.
That would require this
that There is so much it feels that I don’t have.
Or maybe I’m just not being grateful.
I have friendships. I have life.
I have an ego that has been wounded.
Specifically when he chose
everyone over me and had failed to tell me.
I had to dig the truth
and hurt myself.
I’m waiting for an apology
that’s not going to come.
I’m waiting for my love and all of the dogs
to come back to me.
I’m still grieving several almost deaths.
Blue skies and the everyday
Judy Garland say it with the spoken word country mouth which I never fail to hold artists I never fail to hold artist I walk these empty streets back and forth white walls I walk uphill I walk uphill with a hunchback holding things all the things I see my breath and look at my reflection while walking down the hill I sit and can see blocks from here with my glasses on the dog is barking the dog is barking
