I created this blog to share my poetry with the internet. I wanted to know if what I scribbled onto the pages of my journals were fit to be called poems at all. Maybe they are. I have yet to find out.
2019 is upon us in a couple of weeks and after good bout of arguments with my boyfriend about where my writing career is headed, I have decided to deviate from publishing dreary alienating poems. To what? I’m not entirely sure and I don’t think I will be until I begin whatever I think I’ve planned.
I like to read. I used to love to read but maybe that’s why I’ve ended up where I am ; not reading nearly as much as I want to. Booktube has terrified me with it’s ability to read close to ten books a week and collect Goodreads statistics to the jaw-dropping hundreds annually. I don’t have that kind of stamina nor that kind of interest.
So 52 books is where I will start. One book journaled in a week. Every week, I will sit with one person (an author) and hear what he/she has to say and then reflect upon it here. Here is not Tumblr, which is an instantly pacifying thought and here is not the salivating, snarling mouth of a beast waiting to snap shut at my fumbles.
If I get to the end of the year in one piece psychologically, I hope to feel accomplished in some way. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter as long as I’ve gone a few places, seen a few things, talked to a few people. All of which reading is able to provide, in the comfort of my living room & in the hungry spaces of my mind.
From here, I migrate…
It’s so strange that the people I’m most comfortable with also make me feel like they’re going to go away from me at any given moment. They make time feel like a vortex that they like to edge closer and closer to just to keep me on my toes, no, to keep my heart pounding in my mouth. It’s an existential game. “How Long Will It Be Until She Stops Dreading?”
After the panic
the madness, our madness
hold me tight
choke it out of me
strangle the fear right out of me
lines of blue blur around my neck
the room goes from small to smaller to fade to black.
is that soft suggestive breeze
that utters itself
through the mouth
of a friend
who means no harm
Mind the gap between his
two front teeth
as I lean in to kiss him
out of habit.
A force stronger than
the tickle of a breeze
“The kiss, it’s only in your head, “
whispers the wind,
“Memory is just as suggestive, no?”
Memory trickles down into my skin,
embeds in my nerves,
gets to every tip and follicle
Mind the gap
between his presence and his memory
As you lean in to kiss him,
the fog engulfs and
you fall right through.
If I had to see you again
I wouldn’t, simply out of fear.
Would we still have it?
That soft fluid burning on a thread
each end tied to the pit of our stomachs.
And what if it isn’t there anymore?
I would perish all over again, I would mourn,
I would turn to black and mould.
And then there would be the other questions.
Did it take a marriage to forget me or just an afternoon?
Did you have to exorcise my memory and feed them
to your demons?
And where do you keep the carcass?
Mine sleeps beside me, snuggled,
as you did,
almost every night.