#fergutful

-Mikey Jakubowski

From my poem “On Hold.” Read the whole thing here.

Thoughts on being an artist: It's difficult for me, as an artist, to grasp which parts of me are okay to disclose to people and which ones are not. I've always wanted to be the artist that says it like it is, that is honest and raw and human— not god-like or bulletproof or unbeatable; these things would only be an injustice to myself and everyone around me. I believe I've done a fair job of publicly displaying my wounds and, of course, only to encourage other people to do the same— to talk about their dark side, to be vulnerable (strong), to de-stigmatize being emotional. But often I have this sense of losing myself, like I have unremittingly given away even the most delicate parts of me. I know that, as an artist and as a performer, my job is to share my experiences, but how many of them? If I turn my heart inside out and lay it on the table, am I allowed to then cover up certain parts of it? If I take the bandaid off, how long until the air starts to sting? At what point does my honesty become self-harm?

Will I be able to go out and find myself again?

This time it’s in my teeth, buzzing, clipping, whistling even, like the kettles of water I used to boil for the sound. It’s a nuisance to you, I’ve noticed, how quiet I am, lips curling open like old wallpaper, trying, revealing my discolored interior. I cry and cry about it each night and wastefully so, all that water leaving me—I want it back. But my life is not one to be filled, to be cared for, to be rocked in the kitchen in your arms as I spread tomato seeds into my cutting board. We give the baking dish to the oven but I wish it was me this time.   This time it’s up the back of my neck, a cowlick from too many ponytails, a knife poking out but feeling like it’s coming in. You follow me to the bed and I pull my leg away from you when I think you feel uncomfortable. But then you place your head to the back of my shoulder and all the books start flying around the room, hitting the walls and splitting, opening only to pages with the words “pain,” “regret” printed on them. When I get up to leave I’m stopped by my life story telling me to let go of loving you. I’m trying.   This time it’s around my chest, closing in, squeezing, choking, making it easier to give away my breath than to take it. In my bedside drawer I’ve kept an inhaler but each asthma attack is getting warmer and warmer, higher and higher, farther and farther away from you. On the wall, a note is saying “call Mom” in my handwriting, but I don’t listen to strangers and now you are there gripping my hand, my body bending, bargaining for air. For every wave of love you send haring at me, I find it impossible to return. I love you, but this is all I ever was.

Straight men shame all these minorities for being “over-sensitive” or “offended by everything” or “too PC,” for being angry in our activism, but they never think to consider the fact that they are the ones causing us to feel that way. Heated political rhetoric may not always get us far, but it’s sure as hell justified.

Mike Ferguson (fergutful)

Something about this just gets me, i dunno. The screen, the green, the freckles of the background. I took this right when I woke up a few days ago.