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Literature Text
i have an elephant in my head.
and there is always room
for one more thought
and one more anxiety
and one more insecurity
and one more memory
and one more flashback
and one more--
no. i don’t talk about that stuff.
i never talk about that.
i don’t like talking about it
but i’ve never been able
to hide the elephant in my head
because it’s reminiscent
of puppet talk.
my face says it all,
my emotions pulling the strings
as if i’m nothing more
than a marionette.
because most days, in truth,
i feel as though
i am nothing more than a puppet
with elephants in his head
aimed to please
like i’m dumbo.
(or whatever the story is
because i’ve never seen
that silly little movie.)
i take my distractions for granted
because like oxygen,
you don’t realize it is there
until you need it most.
and like breathing
i don’t notice loneliness
until i’m left in my bedroom
sleeping my entire day away
so i don’t have to face
the fact that i am alone, again.
and this is the first time
i've admitted this, but i will now.
from the age of 7 to 16,
i roleplayed with my sister
just so i didn’t feel so alone.
stories of family, action,
victory and defeat
to make up for the bullshit life
i lead with no friends,
no money, no job.
and when i had one,
i’m still stuck here.
and my pillow
still doesn’t fucking have arms
and i still can’t touch her
and i still can’t go too long
without a damn distraction
before my seams come loose again.
i can’t even watch
my fucking dvds anymore
because they all
have it better than i do
and i have it better
than someone else
but that shit is all relative
and i don’t even speak to mine.
i’m lonely. i’m sad.
and i’m just really, really tired.
and there is always room
for one more thought
and one more anxiety
and one more insecurity
and one more memory
and one more flashback
and one more--
no. i don’t talk about that stuff.
i never talk about that.
i don’t like talking about it
but i’ve never been able
to hide the elephant in my head
because it’s reminiscent
of puppet talk.
my face says it all,
my emotions pulling the strings
as if i’m nothing more
than a marionette.
because most days, in truth,
i feel as though
i am nothing more than a puppet
with elephants in his head
aimed to please
like i’m dumbo.
(or whatever the story is
because i’ve never seen
that silly little movie.)
i take my distractions for granted
because like oxygen,
you don’t realize it is there
until you need it most.
and like breathing
i don’t notice loneliness
until i’m left in my bedroom
sleeping my entire day away
so i don’t have to face
the fact that i am alone, again.
and this is the first time
i've admitted this, but i will now.
from the age of 7 to 16,
i roleplayed with my sister
just so i didn’t feel so alone.
stories of family, action,
victory and defeat
to make up for the bullshit life
i lead with no friends,
no money, no job.
and when i had one,
i’m still stuck here.
and my pillow
still doesn’t fucking have arms
and i still can’t touch her
and i still can’t go too long
without a damn distraction
before my seams come loose again.
i can’t even watch
my fucking dvds anymore
because they all
have it better than i do
and i have it better
than someone else
but that shit is all relative
and i don’t even speak to mine.
i’m lonely. i’m sad.
and i’m just really, really tired.
Literature
Things I would Tell Her--C.
I want to tell her the things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
Her hands
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
to flutter,
to fly.
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hea
Literature
mutewords
I tuck my thumbs into belt loops and listen
to friends’ syllables, and it’s all right. But then
mutewords slip between my teeth in droplets,
and everyone watches the rivulet of consonants
spill over my chin like I am a toddler gurgling
and maybe I am. I clamp my lips shut before
more can dribble down my shirt, and the letters
taste like day old coffee. Everyone blinks long and slow
to forget, but I remember that they heard my words,
their hollow dissonance, but did not want to listen,
and it’s all right, and it always is all right.
Literature
what we're not supposed to talk about
I could make a story out of
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and place
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i'm so fucking sad and lonely and nobody helps me because nothing helps because they're not here.
i'm so, so, so fucking sad. just let me cry.
i'm so, so, so fucking sad. just let me cry.
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