Ira Em

I grew up in a Norman Rockwell painting if they fathers smoked meth to keep up with 14 hour factory shifts and the mothers rubbed fentanyl on babies gums instead of gin I come with an apology note attached- an explanation of my detachment

I feel the words swell up and I eat them Swallow the air, hold my bottom lip stiff I make it around corners and tuck between cars before I crumble like marzipan Turn to dust under my own fingers Sticky mess of a girl

I don’t know how to live without an escape route I don’t know how to relax I carry the tension in my shoulders and vomit the fear into the sink again Pull together, fix my face How many times can I person repeat this? My back can’t break, my bones are stronger for the fractures and I wouldn’t let you know even if it did

I heard victims of prolonged childhood abuse don’t feel pain the same It’s numb for us We can push ourselves to the brink of death before we realize it hurts

I want you to rub the Xanax on my gums Knock the back of my head with a plushie hammer And I’ll lose my front teeth and my mind Fall asleep with no loud noises If you never ask for help you’re easy to work with If you let them know how it feels you’ll be gone by morning Or else return to a silent room It’s something like a Rockwell painting

“Susan Sontag, On Photography”-2020

The text reads:

“Conspicuous Consumption of the image creates an emotional numbness -

We are devoid of of perspective if we fail to see ourselves in the image.

Are you held accountable for your inaction by this image?

Is your pain reflected in this image?

WHERE DO YOU FEEL THIS IMAGE IN YOUR BODY?

if you cannot find it, if it stirs nothing-

This is a page from my recently finished zine, “My Heart is a Binary Machine”. It’s a little book of collages of personal photographs and found physical text and poetry about love, trauma, and the horrors of dating other ””””””””””creatives””””””””””

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