It’s five AM and I have a feeling that masturbating will only make me feel worse
instead i’ll journal some. How strange it is to write these days. I write so much for school. Today I wrote an original soliloquy in the voice of captain motherfucking Ahab. And it was dope too. It felt to me the way the poems used to feel. I got into it. Could hear a rhythym in the words I haven’t heard since I wrote the last persona piece--the Hippocampus poem-- back in twenty thirteen. It was the last thing I wrote before I fell in love with you, which means it was the last thing I ever wrote completely free of you. Once we met my brain somehow short-circuited and I stopped being able to process the idea of any kind of wider audience. It was only you. And look where that got me. Now, it’s different. I know you’ll never read or hear another word I ever write and apparently I’ve chosen to respond to that with mutiny. I told myself i’ll never write creatively again, and for the most part I have not. Ha! I’ll show you, lover. You couldn’t find me even if you wanted to and God knows you haven’t wanted to in months, and so it seems i’ve made a martyr of myself. Don’t know exactly when, or how I chose that but it’s obvious I did. It’s ok though...I haven’t felt any kind of release from words in years. I think i’m too old to be writing poems anyway. Certainly too old to be crafting them for love or glory. Certainly too old to be hiding behind them.
Like everything lately, there is absolutely no point to any of this. I’ve said most of it before...and better....but It’s five fifteen AM and I haven’t stopped thinking about you in days and of course I hate myself for that and of course I have availed myself of other company but there is something about the trauma--not of you specifically I guess, but the trauma of everyone--something about this sick and awful world, my sick forgotten heart, something about the two that keeps me licking at the jagged shards you made in me.
