Kim Addonizio, From Lucifer At The Starlite: Poems; “You With The Crack Running Through You”

I gave my soapbox speech about how weight loss is mostly bullshit to two different patients in a row yesterday and so help me I’m pretty sure one of these days someone is going to say “but SURELY you agree I’d be HEALTHIER if I lost weight!” bc you can see the disbelief in their eyes. And like. Sure, maybe! You might see some improvement in biomarkers like LDL and A1c, and your knees would probably feel better. But you would be amazed at how much more good you can do for yourself by focusing on things you can actually meaningfully change without resorting to making yourself miserable. Eat more fresh fruits and vegetables—it’s hard bc they’re more difficult to prepare and more expensive per calorie and go bad faster than other foods, but they’re what we evolved eating the most of so they’re what our bodies need the most of. And walk around more; sure, cardio is great for you, but if it sucks so bad you don’t do it, it isn’t doing shit for you. And we evolved to walk very very long distances, a little bit at a time, so our bodies respond actually very well to adding walks into our schedules, which is vastly easier than adding workouts that are frankly designed to be punishing when the definition of punishing is “makes you less likely to do it again in the future.”

You get one life. It is shorter than you can begin to imagine. Don’t waste it hating yourself because somebody is going to make money off that self-hatred. You deserve better than to be a cash cow for billionaires who pay aestheticians and dermatologists to make them (or at least their trophy wives) look thin and beautiful no matter what they actually do.

Why is art so difficult? Art block shouldn't be real, we are all made by skillful hands and minds anyways. This isn't fair 😔

Math class 🤩💔

especially in math class

This encapsulates everything I've ever felt, in my life. This hits so hard LOL

here is the light and the stool and the waterbottle so you can wring your hands and make a joke about your life like you are tumble-drying. here is the audience of your friends with their faces weirdly pinched just because you admitted that when you were growing up, bad things happened. when other people talk about their past, nobody flinches. when you mention the things you survived, everyone else gets uncomfortable, calls it trauma dumping. meanwhile to you it's just, like, something that happened.

you learn to sidestep it or to disguise it or to wait until it's dark out. you wait and hold the wasps nest and blink into the bright lights and then you make a joke about it. here is the joke: there is a hole in me that stays open no matter what i put into it. i have spent my life trying to make myself full and things just fall out.

and everyone loves a hole joke! how big is the hole? how wide? what does it swallow? once you disassociated with your turn signal on and it made your spiraling thoughts feel staccato, like rainfall. once when you were in the middle of a field you had the sudden thought - lightning could strike and wouldn't that just like, resolve it all?

clap your hands go to school go to work smile about it stuff yourself with this world because everyone says if you peel off the bad bits the new skin starts to show except it's been years and the uphill never stops being a slope. can you just lay down and be healed. you feel embarrassed to mention to your therapist that things are getting bad again, like you're wasting her time. like if you were really trying shouldn't you just be better. obviously you're not taking it seriously. you have to beg her to stay, worried that she will be one of the therapists that says this clearly isn't helping.

open your mouth and deliver a tight five minutes of comedy. make yourself beautiful and pleasing. you want to say im not ready but life doesn't wait for you to put your hands up so live under the boot. so never stick your tongue out hoping for snowflakes - more likely than not, god is gonna piss on you. good luck in the morning, you can't process the car crash because your whole life is an accident. nightmare kid; no matter how fast you run, you're still at the scene of the injury. elastic, you snap back to the broken rib. is this where you left your childhood? buried in somebody else's fingers.

get up on stage and do a little dance for us. get up on stage and try to language the loneliness never stops yawning but don't sound desperate or sad or yearning or wanting. sound brave and inspiring and dishonest about how badly you're hurting. call up foucault and laughingly promise that any time you talk about this you are adding disclaimers that of course peace is possible and you're so much better than you were before and the friction of your soul only sands down the sharp parts and never the tender spots and you're in therapy and you're a success story and you are neither a danger to yourself nor to others. either you are suffering just quietly enough or they lock you up. put your jazz hands up, make a spectacle out of yourself in glitter glue. you are someone's mental health month bulletin board & AI generated recovery chatbot.

you're too gentle to be a problem, but isn't that part of the difficulty. if you could just fucking talk about it. you have seen other people be helped and get what they need and be supported. something about you and the way you are - when you lose control, it's just not allowed, is the thing. it's embarrassing, not concerning. get back up on stage and finish your set. stop making us worry about it. the things that echo in you shouldn't be able to escape the bones in your head.

get back up on stage and perform like you're healthy, goddammit.

thank you for being alive to read this, I'm glad you're here

Longing

The way my eyes trail you.

You're gorgeous- stunning, ravishing,

in ways that I never knew possible.

The curly frizz that entangles in ones vision,

the black hues that drip from your head.

The lights reflect on cracked glass, yet enabling sight regardless

nonsensical, nothing about this is pieced together

the way you throw your head back as you laugh, then cover your mouth

hiding away crooked smiles, teeth shifted awkwardly

an offense to the saying "a sight for sore eyes",

yet I drink you up like you're water.

I'm a man in the desert oasis, surrounded by everything Ill ever need and want.

And yet I long for the scorching sun that you provided.

It's been eons since I've last seen the light.

Do your eyes linger on me, too? The way my multi-colored hair sits on my shoulders,

I want it cut again, I want to cut again.

The way my shirt travels just a bit up, leaving much to the imagination.

Compared to sunshine, I find myself hollow of light.

I give and I give and I give, but I miss having you take.

The things I'd do to have you in my life again.

You keep your head down, I keep my head up.

Do you sense what I sense, or am I lost in the sea of sand?

Delusional, hallucinatory, craving something that I have an abundance of.

Craving you, in its wake.

I long for your arms around me again.

The warmth, sweetness you provided me.

Faux, artificial, disgusting and allergenic

But sweet regardless.

Do not be mistaken, every display is reflection of who I am

Who I've always wanted to be.

But it would be nice, to share that sincerity with you.

If that's what you longed for.