I’m feeling this a lot lately. Hence the lack of posts. I’m in my head and in my heart and not in it with anybody. I can’t seem to think straight or feel straight or talk straight. It’s all a jumbled mess and I miss home. And I’m not happy and so I’m being honest. My smile is brittle. It is candy. Wasting away for our satisfaction. “I look in the mirror and I do not know myself. It seems I haven’t for awhile now. If I ever did. I smile. It seems brittle, like a dying lollipop between eager teeth. There are no crows feet. No tiny little lines that say “this is real, I am happy”. Because I don’t think I am. But I can’t be sure. My mask, mass produced, has been on too long for me to notice the nuances of my emotions. I can hardly tell a grimace from a grin anymore.”
We went live on Amazon this morning and my pride hasn’t faltered once. Every poem in this collection is more real than all the ones in the collection before. And dammit they were real, but my poems, my collections, my books they are growing with me.
“THINGS WE DON’T TALK ABOUT” There’s days I can feel it coming. It’s a shiver down my spine, goosebumps on my arms. It’s the knowledge that I’m being watched. Stalked. Tracked. And I think because I know it’s coming, I know that it’s waiting for that moment of sudden, expected vulnerability, that I am safe. But it is more patient than I. More aware that the time will come. It always does. Then there’s days I don’t feel anything at all. There are no shivers, no pleasures, no pains. It hits me like a train and then nothing. Unspeakable pain then stars, blackness, blankness, a void I know I’m supposed to fill. But can’t. Because it’s come. It always does. Then there’s days like today. It’s eleven o’clock and I can’t drag my sorry ass out of bed. I don’t want to. It seems painfully pointless. The lights too bright. Shut the blinds. Lie back down. Don’t write. Don’t read. Don’t reach out. It’s here. It always is.
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