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1. anne sexton (“the truth the dead know”), 2. anne sexton (“suicide note poem”), 3. mary oliver (“august”), 4. l.m. montgomery (“anne of the island”), 5. morgan parker (“the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth”), 6. found poems: sylvia plath / peter k. steinberg (“percy key among the narcissi”) artwork by hugo grenville

It is too much

I KNOW I LOOK FINE, BUT DON’T LOOK. JUST LISTEN. 

Why can't I feel it?

I want hope, something to hold onto. E-mail my therapist another plea, beg for a few kind words. God I'm on my knees again. Hands up in the air. Give me something. I don't care what it is but I'm so tired of constantly balancing on the edge. Hurt me. Help me. Heal me. Make me feel anything other than what I feel now. Cause this constant chaos is tearing me apart and I can't stand feeling like this any longer. I'm scared of everything - maybe the most of myself. Of who I've become and who I've been. I look for the woman I was and can't seem to find her. Feel little girl small in an adult life. I try. I try. I try. It's like that dream where I run, fall, get up again. Keep falling. Fail to find the escape. Keep getting up again and again.

I just don’t remember enough

SORRY FOR DOING IT ALL WRONG

It doesn’t work. I still feel afraid.

Samuel Araya

from "Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin (1939-1947)"

[text ID: I go on living. Deathtouched, changed, but my life arrives again / at yet. It’s May. I wake to it, thick and sweet as honey I’d forgotten.]