On Being Weak
On being weak
Rainy days, everyone is equal. Everyone's pant cuffs soaked, smokers under awnings. We're all missing somebody else.
I basked in idleness like a dog in light. I saved myself.
Things healed and plants grew and if I die here or not litters will still be born. I could be born with them.
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Dude last night I had this dream we were fucking. I saw the back of your neck all bare and it was like I fell forward lips first onto it. Thin gold chain, spring clasp, I ripped it off with my teeth. I heard you choke for a second until it broke but you knew I wouldn't hurt you.
And in the dream we are in your bed, in your old room, the one you shared with that emo boy-girl who didn't want you having anyone over ever, in that so silent space of broken eye contact and listening, listening. A space can't last if you know you have to leave it right, so here I am writing about some pathetic dream I had about some thing I said I would forget. Maybe some other night I would write about softness or upturned lips but no this is all water now
unknown // ladybird (2017) // white oleander by janet fitch // elektra by sophocles // everything everywhere all at once (2022) // sharp objects by gillian flynn // mamma told me by mother mother
I used to love this city and now it just feels haunted
i wish i didn't feel so sick inside of my body i wish i was like everyone else i don't mean that but things would be a lot simpler if i did
everything i write turns out as an i-statement and maybe that means i don't think about anyone other than myself but i don't want to speak on someone else's behalf
i told you sooooooooooooo 🫡
When I was little, probably 7 or 8, I spent a summer working in the library at our church helping out the elderly woman who ran it. It was no bigger than a large broom closet but we had a notable amount of religious books for all age ranges as well as an extensive collection of cassette recordings of every Sunday sermon going back a decade or two. I'd sit in there all day helping her catalog the index cards and keep record of who had borrowed what. We wrote on index cards all day long and listened to the recorded sermons, which included the choir's worship service at the beginning. "Nearer, My God, To Thee" was always my favorite hymn by a long shot. I wanted to emulate listening to it on the tiny tape player in that little library for Perverts. It's a fond memory of mine, just wanted to share :)
Excerpt from 'For you I am a child'
I couldn’t see the letters my hand formed, black against blue on black, but I knew they were there. After this blind exercise was completed, I returned the pen and wrapped my cold feet back into the blanket. Now, it was easy to fall asleep, and if I dreamed that night, I do not remember.
If a poem can be anything, I could’ve written anything. How to make avocados ripe, directions to a church of law, a vow, an elegy, how to rig a sailboat, fold a fortune teller, French inhale, sin, make good oatmeal, kiss without teeth, escape self-delusion, write a novel, give a blowjob, be less, be more, leave everything behind, get blood stains out of white sheets, hold eye contact, not get lost in New York City, find the nearest body of water, win at solitaire, be alone, write in dip pen, build a portal, be with others, float, harmonize, unlearn shame, learn guilt, . . .
The sky is a foggy dark gray like I’ve hotboxed the whole planet and not just my 13th floor apartment, smoke curls out the window and it always has somewhere to go.
There is no room for hesitation or stupidity. It just is, and I am carried by want, impulse, the direction of the wind.
Like she said, I want to feel the heat of all the bodies. I want to be alive but aliveness disgusts me, I want to be predictable and human-like. Every moment I am thinking about how it will end and this gets me nowhere, so no wonder I feel stuck.
Trapped in between two tall buildings, endless city blocks, always paralyzed by fear, asking stupid questions like it’s part of my nature— which it is— existing under a false lightless sky; I’m finding wonder in things that I can’t see, taking the easy way out.
Hi im Sophie I like silver jewelry quiet eyes and soft hair. Hot wax and mad cats and a good saxophone solo, I like friends who love me and I like to love; I like to be alone. Empty bathrooms a safe crowd a 1950s fire escape just out of Manhattan from where I can see the stars. I like a rickety thing, unsafe sex, breaking a searching gaze. I like a stranger, a stranger in a big city, a boring kind of stranger to whom things don’t happen; and I like playing a part, a person to whom nothing happens, nothing at all.
Sunny is a girl in a sea of girls
I want to be loved like a piece of jewelry. You would hate it if I were gone and you would feel my absence like a misplaced thought.
The third and last time we met you did not touch me in a new or exciting way. This is when I realized I was searching for a feeling that did not exist.
I want to be loved like a thing you find god in. There are few things like that: writing, discipline, truth. But I am no vessel of god, I am searching for it too.
Even though I looked at your face for many hours I cannot remember it. You had eyes and a mouth, unshaven. Your body cold and made to worship. The missing section of the heart is where humanity lies and your heart is impossibly whole.
