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@smalltownmoon
it doesn’t matter how long i engage in the exhaustive, iterative process of self-improvement:
to process the unprocessable, return to the sensory, because you cannot self-improve your way out of a crisis.
you can only ground yourself and begin to notice the flowers again, the sweet birds as they flutter past and collect on rooftops, the rich taste of comforting food, and a gentle breeze making your hand gasp as it reaches out to close a window
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miraculous seed
golden lover lady folding
out of yourself, gleaming lines
angling themselves, supple and new
how did you do it, how did you
fold yourself, neat, tight wire and you've gone from one
transgression to another. you've been both, seen both, felt both, you fold and fold yourself into new you, new you, new you, new you
time for this, a new delirium, tagging along just behind my uprooted teeth which now lie forgotten in fine sand. see now which way i go. do i go up, perhaps out to sea? forward is meaningless now; there is no forward now my teeth are gone. there is no forward now i lumber along, the untidy mass of constituent parts, i’m unfurling out into water and my bones how they roll gently and collide before they bob in my green blue. small small cacophony.
my face is fixed behind me with an uneasy grin drawn across my naked back. i wear it slung across my shoulders, melting shawl, drip drip - you miss your teeth, don’t you -
couldn’t i have been better? i think i could have. i tried hard, so hard. i plucked each organ out and tasted it, i let my own heart throb in my mouth --
i long for you, you know. i love you and i think i’m not supposed to --
but tumbling out goes the deer carcass i hid inside my belly, ugly rotten thing, secret after secret peels off revealing this ‘well-hidden’ necrosis.
reeking creature, shamble on and don’t stop - go underground if you must - i’m sick of you, we’re all sick of you, you broken baby animal, irresponsible to the last.
swallow your fucking teeth and be done with it.
Today I try out atrophied muscles again and I push through the inadequacy, because I must:
When, after rape I turned inward onto myself, I held my own hand and gently walked myself into nothingness; I embraced loneliness; I chose not to talk; I chose to isolate, to hate, mourn in an ugly anger;
I hemorrhaged friends in thick clumps.
4 years on and nobody talks to me now.
Please understand --
I can’t help but feel I had some hand in making myself like this.
The traumas are big and they hide in the corners.
They want you to know you have to be conscious now of everything your body was to him then and what it could have been if he just hadn’t
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if it can’t be perfect for you then throw it out, your life seems to permanently feature compromise, and yet when you lay claim to one thing the choice has to be: either to have it fully or not to have it at all.
no way of aestheticising or lyricising a shrinking brain and failing memory from self-inflicted neurotoxicity i tried to make my brain smaller so i could feel less: sadly i report that i feel the same, but am lost in a world too fast and too clever for me
difficult to feel empty when you won't stop bleeding uneasy, uneasy chew on that wound drag the knife down the throat gulp the blood it's no longer a case of i should not be bleeding if i could swallow my own blood maybe my body would listen and stop it's that disintegration loop again see how it goes i measure my life now in cups of blood and weeks since i started bleeding
i went to the gp alone and cried as she examined me and said "there's too much blood to really see" - so she didn't try to look any further, prescribed me nothing and told me to come back if i was still bleeding (by this point i had been bleeding freely for two weeks)
all i want is to stop and they say it is okay to want that but i can't just stop for two weeks work doesn't disappear just because you're scared you might have cancer commitments don't disappear floors do not mop themselves just because my world froze does not mean everyone else's did
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you fitted yourself in, a constant among everything else - a kind thorn place your palms on my heart keep it beating; consume it
It is happening Sickness encourages feeling outside the Regular senses, perceiving more Than usual; what I lack in balance I more than make up for elsewhere. This is it, it's happening, It always has -- Every several months I'd feel Like I've conquered those before, And risen Again, out of myself, my own throat, Clambered out of that sickening pit, And it's no longer new, Got the hang of it now -- My head more often above the water Than not -- So, for a moment, I can forget That I'm so close To breaking
stumbling across the resolute thought that this is what you are - trauma became you it ate you it regurgitated you and what came out is a new kind of you, one who will shake and falter at affection as well as pain
the city sounds between two trees, positioning calm in spite of myself, i sit, and you doze; napoli is long faded away into night-clouds, sorrento sighs with me, the monologue stops.
June on the West Coast
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how to feel in line with the size of the world which is to say, to augment the self to feel so expansively and to do justice to each moment and each event as people clash and meld or fall apart; it aches, fixity in language remains unattainable
i looked down and saw your neck and i ached