If you don’t hear from me, it is because, for whatever reason, some rogue train has started in my head. It is an old, mercurial machine. What happens when it starts? I scratch my head (both sides), I pick up the knife (and touch it to the table). I rub my toes against any surface I can find. I am a glass of water waiting to be disturbed. I dream about my house, rooms I never knew were there. I dream about sex with people I don’t want, about torture by hammers. I don’t shower. I make a mistake. I am disgusting, dangerous. I cut myself. Or else I am beautiful. I take 18 selfies and dance naked in the mirror; I am a genius. I masturbate. I post a picture. I get on a plane and think it into the sky, clench my fists and hope I don’t think the word “down.” I hope we crash, says my brain.
I look at the clock. I am dehydrated. I read my poem. I hate myself, how the sentences always start with “I.”
I wake up and the world has changed. There is magic in the trees, the birds are speaking. I have an idea. I lose it. I buy men’s deodorant and wear it every day. I am convinced that something beautiful is just around the corner. Is it you? I speak and it is not me speaking, write and it is not me writing; I am connected, everything is. I am learning a lesson. I am having a revelation. The world has something to tell me—it winks like it knows I’m watching, and cares. My passion is a gift I like to give that sometimes no one asked for, or so my therapist says. You could keep unwrapping forever.
I sleep past noon. And the walks between responsibilities are always the hardest; for months, the sound of my feet crunching the snow is all there is. I have a dream. I have a nightmare. I wonder what it is that makes me different every season. The moon expands in a purple sky. I am close, close, as close as I will ever be to knowing.
If you don’t hear from me, it is because, for whatever reason, some rogue train has started in my head. It is an old, mercurial machine. What happens when it starts? I scratch my head (both sides), I pick up the knife (and touch it to the table). I rub my toes against any surface I can find. I am a glass of water waiting to be disturbed. I dream about my house, rooms I never knew were there. I dream about sex with people I don’t want, about torture by hammers. I don’t shower. I make a mistake. I am disgusting, dangerous. I cut myself. Or else I am beautiful. I take 18 selfies and dance naked in the mirror; I am a genius. I masturbate. I post a picture. I get on a plane and think it into the sky, clench my fists and hope I don’t think the word “down.” I hope we crash, says my brain.
I look at the clock. I am dehydrated. I read my poem. I hate myself, how the sentences always start with “I.”
I wake up and the world has changed. There is magic in the trees, the birds are speaking. I have an idea. I lose it. I buy men’s deodorant and wear it every day. I am convinced that something beautiful is just around the corner. Is it you? I speak and it is not me speaking, write and it is not me writing; I am connected, everything is. I am learning a lesson. I am having a revelation. The world has something to tell me—it winks like it knows I’m watching, and cares. My passion is a gift I like to give that sometimes no one asked for, or so my therapist says. You could keep unwrapping forever.
I sleep past noon. And the walks between responsibilities are always the hardest; for months, the sound of my feet crunching the snow is all there is. I have a dream. I have a nightmare. I wonder what it is that makes me different every season. The moon expands in a purple sky. I am close, close, as close as I will ever be to knowing.
