You think they’re coming for you & so they are,
torches raised & gleaming in the night that once
hid much greater terrors. Once you thought you may
have been Gregor Samsa & you were afraid to get
out of bed. I mean, how does a person cope with
things like lithium? Blood full of metal, veins growing
tighter & tighter until the dam breaks & the lake
that you think is you — or could be you if the wrong
hour came mocking — sends empty waves, so gentle,
to a shore that never gave a fuck anyhow.
It’s you, not them, but they are here. Same hair, yellow
eyes and polo shirts with collars as stiff as your hips
when you remember the things you did to fit between
the lines still being drawn in the darkness by their flames;
they are here for your crazy, they saw your bug-legs
waving out of your pockets as you leaned to catch your
breath, that time when your silver blood wouldn’t do its part.
Your hair is too long or you didn’t shave your legs,
you have a tragic look in your eyes or resting bitch
face. Someone saw Mona Lisa as Michelangelo &
couldn’t unsee it & now they’re at your door, knock-
knocking; your doctor sold you out, you knew she was
judging you, when you told her you’ve never felt
human at all & she said, well what then? as if you
we’re supposed to have that part figured out. They want
to know too. They want to know what’s in your head
but their science is unspecific. They have a good coroner
though, the one their rage hired before it turned on you —
they say animals are brutal, a lack of sapience &
that your illness has robbed you of yours, they say that
you’re the type that breaks the law as they use
the butt of their rifle to break your skull open,
to find heavy vessels & the lake that spilled
into the inky nothing that they squint at, they hold
their torches up to — but still, still they can’t see
the problem is their own hands, lazy & berry-red
clutching the waist of their khakis.
As I put effort into redoing this site, I want to add a quick note in here to say, despite how this blog looks, I’m not always sad and I’m not always doubting myself. I do those things obviously and I’m aware of how off-putting it is so I chose to post it to my personal site where I get few hits.
This is a thing I do. If I’m excited about something I post on Twitter because it’s the most interactive. If I’m low-key sad, Tumblr because I have maybe four active followers. But if I’m really down it lands here because this is no-mans-land. But if I post it somewhere I give myself points because I did a thing.
I try to write positive notes to people who create things I love but often send them to defunct social media accounts because I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. Again, still points in my head because I did it.
I have work to do, friends. I am making myself. There is no discovery here, no innateness. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing but I’m getting better at it. I’m depressed today but I know I need to finish things. I’m getting acceptances or at least positive rejections. I need a creative home.
I’m writing upbeat even though I’m caving inside. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing guys, but I’m getting better at it.
I am a shaky doubtful thing with a mind like a megaphone and a knack for saying and feeling the precise wrong thing.
I’ve ran off heroes, friends and enemies. I’ve ignored the most virulent of detractors, always able to make myself disappear. I can only imagine people look at me and say, “Hey, it’s just not worth it.”
I echo them: (Nothing to see here.) Zero eye contact, hands in pockets. A book appears from a bag. “She’s gone,” they think and I am.
It’s a habit. It’s been thirty-two years of “I’m not good enough,” “I don’t feel human,” “Forget I said a thing.” It’s been thirty-two years of hiding and staying hidden and leaning on the shortness of memory when recording unimportant things.
I will tell myself I’m the least important of them all. Soft voice, soothingly.
I will tear a motherfucker down and build it again. I’m shit at maintenance but I can build a thing or two. These hands, fingers like twigs, silent palms with nothing lines, these hands can be mighty.
Nothing to see here. I’m the least important of them all. Soft voice, soothing, soothing.
I will try again. I think. For the love of it. I will cut short this season of self-doubt and demolition because while I’m tearing it down I can’t help but think of the ways I would build it back up again.
After years of having my own website and trying to squeeze in time to tinker with the finicky details of a layout, I’ve moved my portfolio onto WordPress hosting.
It kind of feels like I’m moving all of my belongings into a temporary storage unit while I wander. I don’t want the responsibility of a permanent home and so everything is here — compact, but searchable.