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.
Sometimes I really wish my life was a B-grade 80’s horror flick, and then I look outside and get really worried it’s one of those depressing documentaries PBS makes that has really unnerving humanist undertones and you get so angry at this you clench your jaw and growl and throw your hands up in an exasperated “well, that’s 45 minutes wasted.” But on the bright side, that was also 45 minutes of figuring out what movies you really don’t like watching. I like the movie showing right now, at least so far.
not mine, but appropriate to feelings of mounting sense of anxiety
For a minute, I became an obsessive journal writer.I still don’t know what that means about me and I feel oddly and unnecessarily annoyed by it. To quote Didion, “I’m not sure if any of it matters for my purposes.”
I also didn’t write because I didn’t want writing to turn into writing about depression. The past year and a half of my life have really been about coming to terms with the fact that I am a depressed person. I can deal with that now, which actually makes me quite happy and feel way less sad. It’s also been about becoming ok with writing things about me.
I was becoming very terrified of writing. I found that what I had always enjoyed as a kinetic process was turning into a process by which I would force myself to expose pieces and bits of myself that weren’t ready be exposed. Does that make it (the act of writing) “Art”? Am I forcing myself to this brink because of an anxious curiosity about the state of _______ and how it affects me? What I internalize? I think of Whitman: “I contain multitudes, do I contradict myself?”