#Thefeels

Writing is the only way

I'm allowed to bleed.

Just as screaming

At the top of my lungs

To metal on my drive

Is the only socially acceptable way

I have found to rage,

To grieve.

People hear the heavy,

Angry music

And ask, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I think,

"I will be."

Rose Flint, ed. by Kate Rogers and Viki Holmes, from Not a Muse: The Inner Lives of Women: A World Poetry Anthology; "Black Wind"

“my friend the electrical engineer,” i say, or of someone else: “my friend the Canadian,” “my friend in Denver.” and i am down south, states and miles away.

“how did you meet?” they ask, puzzled by how far-flung my friendships. “the internet,” i say, a little proud, a little defensive because the next words are inevitable.

they always ask with a mix of amusement and horror. always. “have you met in person? no? how can you be sure it’s not an old pervert in his mother’s basement, a serial killer on the prowl?”

how can we be sure of anyone? the man who married a pastor’s daughter, then shot his pregnant wife in the back of the head–they thought they knew him. but these anonymous souls: they’re my friends.

we talk of books and ideas, family and differences in where we live and why we do what we do, and trade stupid jokes like candy, sweet and inclusive and joyful. my friends. my soul friends, who i meet on the internet.

we’re sitting by a window looking out into the street, and you wouldn’t guess that it’s April, but it is: and he gets up and says goodbye politely and I say goodbye politely, too, and then the world ends a little more & that’s that: