I donât give a fuck, I love my rock-bottom nest.
It starts with gin and pills,
maybe not both at the same time,
but a kind of much needed peace.
I chase the feeling across towns; the calm in my
chest, the sky breaking open with relief.
I exhale,
and the world exhales with me.
I let go of all that I could never
carry.
I crumble into myself.
I take dreams of broken teeth and empty suitcases and
willow branches to weave a nest. Itâs a small,
shitty, rock-bottom nest, but itâs mine
and I donât give a fuck:
I love my rock bottom nest.
I dream myself a thousand lifetimes.
In one, I am begging to be forgiven on someoneâs doorstep.
In another, I am sinking to the bottom of the river
and asking: does this make me pure?
I dream myself books and teak and petrichor and
liquor, I dream myself
a new reflection, one less scarred, please -
(these days I just look at myself like â Oh, this
fucked up thing? I got that in a no manâs land.)
I come back to myself and find it all so simple;
where the hell am I gonna go if not up?
I wear red.
I am celebrating something.
In a fit of fury, I leave.
I leave a lot.
Somewhere off the highway, I leave myself too.
I bury her in a shallow grave because I might need her,
and resurrection is so easy
when you know what the ghosts want to hear.
I learn the taste of liminal places intimately.
I smoke too much, I donât drink nearly enough.
Once, I spend a whole month without ever leaving the house,
like an afterthought.
Like an afterthought, I forget to celebrate
birthdays and anniversaries and lives
boiling in me.
I buy sturdy shoes and a new jacket and meet
people who say my name the way I have never
heard it before. They hold my name in their mouths
like it is precious, like it is something to
treasure.
a Novel Concept,
and I am not ready.
I take my belly and turn it into a pitcher,
all I do is pour all that I could never say.
When I hit my knee against the table, I scream.
Does it hurt that bad? God, no.
I just have a lot to make up for.
I eat like the cavalry is coming,
wear combat boots
to all the nicest restaurants.
I let myself be nurtured.
I kiss men who⌠well shit, theyâre not going to love me,
you know? But we can both agree to love
this moment.
I walk six miles and never even feel a thing.
My heart is strangely quiet.
My heart hears five âI love youâs in a year and
says nothing.
I prod it with my broken nail, say, âDonât embarrass me,
come on, say something, for fuckâs sakeâ
and my heart, the fucker, locks its mouth and
throws the key into the river.
Later I say: good on you. At least one of us
is using their brain.
But anyway, at some point
I start wearing red.
And I got this feeling I canât shake-
itâs like I am celebrating something
but I donât know what it is.
I just know that it is important.
- by Lana Rafaela / Get your copy of Persephone in a Motel Room now
