I wrote this poem when I was in college, and I thought I’d share it with you, since y’all have been so nice.
Wrap me in ivy because I want to suffer
a grave that looks like an Italian painting.
Give me red shoes because I want
to cut off my feet and I want the poison
on the teeth of combs so I can die
every day and don’t not grant
me every wish because I know you
don’t know “No.”
I want the tears of sick virgins
for baths and I want everything you say
to end in “you.”
My bloodiest of chambers scares
me more than it needs you.
I gave you my voice to scream.
This is when writing was kinetic… and obviously got really scary. Now I find it humorous! I don’t feel like this anymore; I struggle to remember a time when I did. I remember wanting to do something very dark. But it’s not really. It’s very surface level darkenss, not a whole lot of depth. Or maybe that’s just me rejecting it? Ever do that, when you find something you made and are so embarrassed by it/by who you were you must destroy it, as if its presence will somehow magically take you back or revert you to this perceived lesser version of who you are? I can feel the snakes and I’m writhing in my skin to get back to sentences. I’m in the process of moving and for someone who has gone out of their way to get rid of almost everything they own, I find I still own way too much stuff. Anybody want it? I promised myself I’d sneak this little bit to you.
I want the best for your day, I swear.