Tag Archives: creative

113.

It’s been done by so many others
attempted descriptions of an anxious mind
but do you understand obsession?

I am exhausted by how full up I am on
blood and music and sex and maybes
and I can’t imagine a second of quiet

I crack my fingers, my back, my pelvis

And I think about the years I’ve yet to live
I think about the deterioration of my body
I think about the holidays I will never go on
the people I’ll never fuck
and the cancers I’ll surely get

I can’t just let myself enjoy my body
while I still have it 

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112.

My body is decaying
and yours, too, let’s be honest
but I don’t care about yours
if we are to be truly honest

My skin without sun is paper thin
and at twenty-four I’m too old to be a prodigy
but too young to be let off the hook of living

How much longer do I have to
live by news cycles, by words, by numbers
feeling my body die
watching my friends
die

Constantly seeking validation
that will never be enough

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110.

How are other girls soft / where I am hard
How are they sweet / when I am not
I grit my teeth and clench my fists

I long for a boy to break my arms
to be tougher than I am
to challenge me to a fight

And yet not one has, not one can soften me
or crack my ribcage
to see if there’s a heart

The boys I have loved have been gentle
and they have been cold
the second one tried to drink my blood
I would baulk, but it’s the trying

It’s the trying, it’s the challenge
it’s that relentless, violent obsession
that could serve to get under
my skin

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109.

It’s killing me 

I would say were it not so dramatic
and if nothing has killed me yet it won’t
not this, anyway
but details and visions are
crippling my ability
to function normally
without what if, what if, what if
and it doesn’t bear thinking about
but what if it does?
and it will always be in my nature
to look for a way out of anything
to consider the next step
do you think about it, too?

Of course you don’t
some people are content

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108.

After ten days apart will I still
will my heart leap into my throat
will my eyes search you for clues
as you glance up, as you would
to anyone. As we talk as you would
with anyone. As you notice details and
it doesn’t matter if you would
because ultimately, I wouldn’t
but I’m dying without the attention
I’m dying thinking of time she gets
and it’s that you’re just representative
of obsessions, success, shared pasts
and who were you at twenty-three?
Might you have fucked me then?
and I won’t regret a misstep
until June
when you are dead

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106.

For better or for worse
my obsession with success
with calendars and ticking clocks
has brought me here

I feel my body decay
month by month, day by day

And I can’t quite vocalise
what it is I fear
only that when I’m forty
I want to be happy

To not regret leaving friends behind me
to not long for
crowded halls
to say only I am relieved

That I had fun,
but I am glad I am here

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105.

It’s only November

Only November and I still just want to be alone
to sleep until six, seven, alienate everyone
and I know it’s better for me
to have friends, to read, to drink and eat
but I would rather sleep

Where is the person I was in July, August,
even September, a false sense of self
aided by the palm trees and desert dust
and nobody will ask me if I’m okay
if there’s anything they can help with
because they’re all so wrapped up in their own death
as am I

I don’t really remember my mortality
until November
that’s a lie, I can feel myself dying every day
and I can’t believe we’ve December, January,
February and March until this mess is over
and then after a brief flirtation with ice cream
and freckled skin, it’ll just start again

Who can love me in November?
as I just barely hold myself together

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