#hlp333

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I haven’t poetry in too long. Here’s an excerpt from a poem I wrote back in October. :)

Plea to Janus

Give me another chance

For me to do better this time

No longer a self gratuitous pity party host

I’ll sit on my couch,

Be a good little girl and generate predictable rhymes

I’ll take the right supplements so I can behave normally, I won’t let myself rot

Please believe me,

Know that I am just a victim of my thoughts

I’m not happy anymore but I’m not sad

that’s as good of a start as anything

It’s more than I’ve always had

The light has left from my eyes I know

Look again, I’ll use what I have to make something appear

I’ll reinvent the electric coil in pursuit of my happiness, I’ll illuminate my love until its clear

I left for so long and I’m not the same

That’s what I wanted

I flee so I could change

Do I like who I’ve become?

Maybe I should run away again

Maybe I should run.

Run away from myself

The gutter looked more comfortable in pictures, it’s too wet and cold to make my home

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excerpt from an untitled short story

I've been working on this story for about 4 months now, this is one of my favorite parts that I've written so far.

Not everyone believes in the idea of a divine purpose. I do. I believe that most of us come to this earth with our destiny preloaded into our subconscious. Eternally aware of our reason for being here, armed with the ingenuity and gall to make it happen. For the rest of our population it’s a bit more difficult. How lonely it must be wandering a planet with no knowledge as to why you’re present, constantly questioning what the point of all this is. 

Maybe the point is that there is no point. Maybe our capitalistic hellscape has imprinted this idea onto all of us that we need to be doing something, that our lives need to have one big goal that we work tirelessly towards, one that will make all of our pain and disappointments worthwhile. If we do everything just right, in the end, we’ll be able to look back on our existence and smile because it all “worked out”. What if it doesn’t just work out?  What if there is no grander explanation? Shit happens to people who don’t deserve it, and to those who do, and life keeps going in spite of it all. Why do we feel as though our suffering has to be unique, fetishized, special to have meaning; as though pain and anguish isn't inextricable from existence when in reality it’s the only guarantee. The world keeps spinning and all we can do, all we need to do, is get ourselves to bed at the end of each day. Maybe we all just need to be naked in the woods, bathing in the river, eating fruit off the trees, and having sex in the grass.  

It’s such a hopeful world we live in, but all too often it seems like no matter how hard I try my efforts and goals mean nothing. I try to sit and meditate, to make peace by staring in the face of death. Someone told me once that meditation is preparation for death. Maybe if I face death enough I won’t fear it when my time to leave this plane arrives. Maybe when he greets me I’ll embrace him like an old friend or a prodigal child, instead of as a trespassing stranger.

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Thoughts on "losing it".

Rn it's lost, but I'll find it sooner than later.

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guacamole recipe

Invite three friends over and offer to make guacamole for them. Sit in a circle together on the floor of your living room and enjoy the guacamole with blue corn chips, or white. Who am I to tell you how to live your life?

Once the guacamole is finished, put all dirty dishes in the sink, and then turn all the lights in the room off. Light eight candles and have the shortest friend lay on the floor with their eyes closed and arms by their sides. Recite incantations until they levitate and turn into an avocado.

Use the friendocado to make more guacamole.

(yields 4 servings)

2 ripe hass avocados ½ small red onion, diced and rinsed Juice of ½ lime 1 tsp. white pepper 1 tsp. smoked paprika 1 tsp. Ground oregano ½ tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil 2 tpsp. Chopped fresh cilantro 3 cloves of roasted garlic Freshly ground s&p to taste

In a molcajete, combine herbs, garlic, and avocado. Introduce lime juice, olive oil, and onion.

Chill until ready for usage.

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The Ram

I’d rather press my mind to yours and pray you can hear all I scream to you 

Than speak and do no justice to my unutterable internal truths

I hope my train of thought makes a stop at your station

That my ancestors listen during my morning libations

I hope I never forget

Or let my regret breed contempt for all the words I should’ve said

Apocryphal parting, leaving without a second glance,

Have faith in what we could be should I be given another chance

I will wail prostrated and lay lilies at the unmarked grave of an empty casket

I will pray for the sky to open up from the heavens, a warm light from a savior I can bask in

I will pray for relief from my own fear, to release the demon that commands my motions

To release the concrete I hold so close to my breast as I sink deeper into oceans

It freezes my words at the most inopportune moments, freezes my feet in their place

I pray I start to hate the cold, and cease seeking comfort in what never gives me grace

Am I living for stress, seeking it out, relishing in frustration and personal ineptitude?

When will I relinquish my desperate grasp for control? 

I need to let go of an expectation for an epiphany, to be my own Dead Sea Scroll

I need to be my own savior, to run to my own arms for forgiveness and absolution 

I need to stop seeking out what I lack in others, and look inward for my solutions

I need a pragmatic means to salvation, not a group hug with hypocrites in the arms of Jesus

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Whoever came up with the idea of a "sneaky link" needs to be put down...

It's never felt right to me, that the currently circulating societal narrative has convinced us all that it's ok, normal, and personally enriching to view the people we sleep with as our personal fleshlight, a means to our own sexual ends instead of existing in their own right.

I don't want to reduce others to how they are in bed, nor do I want to be reduced myself.

We all have a need to be understood, cared for, respected, and seen for our true nature it might not be impossible to have a casual sexual relationship that meets these needs, but it is difficult. Maybe one day we'll love each other and ourselves enough to remember do better for ourselves.

Maybe.

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magdalene

I find myself perpetually tortured by my past. Out of all the things I could write, time and time again I find myself in the sandbox of my personal sadness, comforted by the familiarity of everything that's ever made me sad.

Some time ago I wrote this poem about a situation I put myself in, one both preventable and painful. In the midst of this I knew just how terrible it was, I was walking a path paved with broken glass and relished in the feeling of the shards in my foot. I let my expectations and fears ruin my ability to wear my heart on my sleeve.

I thought I would never get over myself, or cease my pity party. I sat with my thoughts and then wrote. I wrote, and reminisced, and wrote more until I didn't feel very much about it anymore. Looking backwards to reflect and not to romanticize the hurt I felt and relive it in a depraved ritualistic exercise of self harm.

If I could go back in time and warn myself I still wouldn't. I'd do it all over again with no changes so I could relive how it all felt in nauseating detail.

Each night I fantasize that the man who ruined me will be my savior That if given another chance he wouldn’t fragment his attention, no longer unsure

I’ll obtain the understanding I hastened to seek from him last time Listen to songs he wrote about me, projections of emotions that he could never describe I’ll erase my memories, every clandestine kiss, even our relentless vehicular diatribes I’ll do all these things for a mere chance recompense with the man I vilify

Ignoring the condition that we left our last home, soot dried on our faces from ashes and plume I’ll open the door to my new apartment, some time from now, and hasten to show him my room Following 3 or more picnics, walks, and “I can't wait to see you again soons” I’ll usher him to my bed again, removing both my clothes and my cocoon

Once he’s inside of me again, and only then, will I realize I’ve fallen in love with the idea of him again, his true self, I’ve grown to despise I’ll hold him by the shoulders, kissing his cheek, whispering into his ear with tears in my eyes ‘I wish I never let you back in here, I just wish that you would die”.

I’d climb to the height of Moriah for him, just to spite his scorn I’d shave my hair, bathe his feet with it, use the rest to weave a blanket that keeps him warm I’d fashion my bones into tools for him, he can use the rest as meat I was born to be the woman who dies for him, just as a lamb was born to bleed

To be with him would require me to murder the woman I’ve become To slit her throat with my nails, for recycled limerence with unaffected white scum

I need him to die so that I can move on

I need him to move on so that this part of me can die