I started streaming recently, and I’d appreciate if anyone wants to come watch and chat with me! I play a lot of different types of games, and sometimes I’m even okay at playing them! ;)
i am nothing but
a segregate sense of self
and a bunch of bones.
the supervisor has come to
bind the eyes, gag this tongue
that tries to scissor snake in two,
hide the hands holding the knife.
red tape so thick it is new
plush carpeting, tailor-made
for my arrival. dress up and
look sharp, a killer smile.
oh, this paperwork. it never
ends, swift doubling back, eating the
tail of its fossil predecessors,
an orbit of copy letter disposables.
the department of human artifice
(resources have nothing to do with it)
sit in the back. take notes
on a cold mahogany coffin-table.
the guillotine lays flat and white,
ready to charge forward to
the instruments, lined up
to lop the limping bit right off.
a clean slice. a small gasp.
this is no cease-fire, this new void.
trying to achieve vocational satiety
with soggy tissues and a wastebasket.
tendons tense. relax
into to place,
crouch to be disjointed,
head wilting slow;
a small dizzy spell
and coppery taste.
breathe the fuck in.
breathe the fuck out.
you can calm down.
(i doubt, i doubt.)
be still. night sky
slow, soft, sure in its ink dark,
stars winking out to swallow me
the tall grasses
sway in wind movement nonexistent,
moaning roar from water-cars
the corpse flower
wafts pungent in the silky air,
catching my nose, my mouth, like
and you are there.
black hole eyes staring
endless, palms outstretched.
i suppose i must be burlap
if you are wool.
we play at being friends,
we rent our sentiments.
sometimes you drain
like potatoes in a can.
thick-spun slime melting off
slowly, then all at once;
you don’t keep well.
the world smiles gorgeous
but not for this one,
this one right here
that stabs slivers of glass
into the backs of eyes.
and those hooks! they claw,
they tear scar tissue
anew, and i don’t scream;
you pass over me in shadow.
it is just this again.
i will endure it, endless,
forever cosmos wrapping,
twisting to pull me
into your black mouth.
awaiting the kill.
you send the beacon out.
I sit in the dark, watch the
blooming, bloody red light sizzle into nothing,
and still nothing comes. no matter, you say,
you know the way. you make your maps and
i listen to you, whether I mean to or not.
you go the wrong route, and i follow, I
can’t find the words and my eyes hurt, the ragged breathing,
yawns wide, canyon-big,
but i can’t tell you
what I think; you don’t want to hear it now.
we should be heading home. we need to backtrack;
back crack from exhaustion, i am the chattle
carrying your precious cargo along a ridge.
rocks snap quick across the edge, skitter into dark oblivion,
and what if I fall in?
i step lightly. I stomp my feet.
Here are my nails, unpainted. My face, unprimed.
My hands are clean. My eyes are bleary, but shine. And yet
you find it less alluring than the smoky-look, the polish and
that damn red lipstick, smudging itself
ungracefully on my teeth.
I’m fixing it up. I’ve got paint.
I’ve got brushes for blush and concealer, mascara
that has not quite congealed, old pots of DIY kohl cat-eyes,
and I’ve got the napkin with your number on it.
Yeah. That’ll do.
I have a little book.
It fits in well; it holds in my hands and on my lap, and it never tells my secrets. The clasp holds tight and hooks my pen. The time has come to open, words creeping out as magnets separate.
- Grocery shopping.
- Clean out that bathroom grate.
- Bathe the dogs and air the bedding!
- You still have coursework on the couch.
- Meditate and practice yoga; don’t get so relaxed, there are about a million more things to do.
I write the date, scrolling through lists past and gaze forlornly upon what I did that same day so long ago. What I didn’t do. What did I not do?
And I write. I write important things. Send that birthday present to her, do NOT forget, you have flaked on her so many times before. And I write mundane things. Laundry. Now. Your socks stink! And I write little, silly things. Play a game. Make a friend. Knit a mouse with a scarf.
Sometimes I cheat.
I write some things I have already done, to revel in the pleasure of crossing them out, to be immediately upon the finish line. I continue to write them, out of habit and not obsessive thought, to see the day when I can have no lingering feeling of something I did not do. Did not get to. Will not get to. Why should I bother?
And of the (hundreds? thousands?) of lists I have made, I have never finished a single day. There is always more to do. There is always a better way, more to be responsible about, more fun to be had than I am capable of having with this list-making, body-aching anxiety of forgetfulness and panic attacks. The falling and not getting up, not today, not now, I just can’t. The perception of failure each new day should be immense. And yet, when I am crawling into bed at night with my well-worn book, looking over what I have done, what has been accomplished despite the time constraints and mind breaks and body complaints feels like I am winning a gold medal for something.
Am I beholden to the list? Or is the list beholden to me?
Today is Father’s Day.
My gift hasn’t arrived for my dad, and I have nothing else to show for myself. But to be honest, this isn’t about my dad. It’s about your dad, and how much I want to be there to comfort you through this pain, this infinite loss that I can’t begin to comprehend but still want to navigate, to save you any little bit of heartache if I can.
But I can’t, can I? Because of the type of person I am.
There are wise people, and strong people, and fun people. Your father was all of these. But there are also weak, and useless, and sad ones like me. People who want to help but never seem to do more than hinder. I try and fail you day after day from selfishness, or carelessness, or stupid anxious habits. I never make it over the hurdle. I never cross that line into your territory, your heart, the way that you move through mine so easily, I don’t even know you’ve held me until it’s over.
This wasn’t what I wanted for you. I wanted to be better. You remember what I told you once? That when I was little, I said I wanted to grow up to be a saint, as if such a thing were possible for an everyday person? It’s funny because it’s not something you choose for yourself, and funnier still because no one would consider me a saint. Maybe not even a good person. You try to see me, see past what makes me a failure, but all that squinting for the distant good has made you blind. I am useless to you. I hold you back, hold you down, make you second to my needs when I know well and good that it’s supposed to be the other way around.
I love you, I love you so much, but that isn’t enough for me to stop hurting you. And I don’t have the right to ask for forgiveness.