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Kit Scott May 27
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why do you write? I asked, when nothing you write is good

"Emotion," you said. "Words spilling too fast to think them through."

that isn't poetry, that's blood I told you. You laughed.

"Of course it's poetry. Blood too. Maybe not good poetry, but it isn't as if I write for others."

how can you not care. not reach after them. our being is outstretched hands and dreaming. how can you bear to write anything but perfection. how can you bear to show off anything less that the best.

You shrugged at me. "Poetry isn't perfection, isn't that the point?"

but we must be as the masters

"That's stupid," you told me, then stood and brushed imaginary dust off the imaginary trousers on your imaginary legs. "I don't need to be a master poet to write about being sad and teenaged, even if it'd be awfully nice to be one."

"Besides, we're, like, fifteen. We've got time, *******."

...that's true.
-
Kit Scott May 27
I dream of taking my shirt off
A fantasy of skin and scars
Of baring my chest to the sun
Of muscle and fat and hair
And all the grossest parts of the human form
I want them to be mine
For this body to be mine
I fantasize of stripping naked
In the privacy of my own room
To look in the mirror and see
A familiar face, a familiar body
Just to see, just to look
Delight unfurls in my heart
Just to know, now, that I belong to myself
That my own bared flesh no longer causes me pain
That my own bareness is no longer a shame
I deal with dysphoria by forcing a disconnect between my mind and my body. I feel like a stranger to myself. This face isn't mine.
Kit Scott May 18
I woke in the early hours today
And watched the dawn
The sky all smudged in red-yellow-blue
And strokes of green
And slate-coloured clouds backlit against the distant paint palette
And the black silhouette of the city
Far away I see a dot of golden in the pitch
So I share this moment alone together with a stranger
Both up in the stupid hours

This is how poems are supposed to go, yeah?
Yeah, something like that. Post it before we start thinking too hard about it.
Kit Scott Mar 17
who
questions blur across my eyes i want to know the answers all the answers who am i who are you where are we and why this stained world like a thousand cathedral windows shattered all strewn glass and holiness you bless my brow like a benediction but where

where am i
twisting like an animal something rising writhing in my gut this fizzing popping burning something red hot veins how do i use this what do i do with it here in a void of you and me and i am so so tired of blaming myself if you wanted something soft then you should've kept me precious but you

                like throwing stones at windows for fun all cruel stupid children and you never grew up i know that now

fractures of me sharp im back again here we are and i learnt to use them do you see all my sharp bits am i a beast yet am i disgusting to you come on try it i want to watch you fail because i am now faster and sharper you are big but you are not infallible i have learnt i am not afraid anymore you made me this so c'mon

                                                          ­               come get me, *******
Kit Scott Nov 2019
you are the end and beginning of everything, did you know that?

shouting and whispering in turn after turn with bullets clenched between your teeth misfiring at will and never knowing how to draw the muzzle back, how to flick the safety on only screaming over and over that

       i am here!

so bitter and angry and with frustration crawling up your spine and making your neck crack, weighing down on your back til you can't walk and every step is a defiance of nature you are everything when every morning you perform a feat of necromantic proportions raising the dead with your waking you snap and snarl and spit whenever anyone tells you

       it's impossible

you creature made of everything you hate, breathing air back into collapsed lungs and bolstering shattered ribs with spite you cannot quite decide whether you are alive or dead or which you want to be you forget how to breathe between breaths and they call you lazy when you are lifting mountains on your shoulders and working miracles with every step you zombie living dead or dying alive turning every bone shard into a weapon and biting down on every complaint til they all burst out at once you

        monster

running on nothing but will you stitch yourself into one thousand and one different forms changing shape like it's the new thing trying so hard to be everything in a body falling apart you add part after part wing and tail and feather but you are rotting from the inside out

     if you replace every board of a ship, is it still the same ship?

turning yourself into one thousand and one different things to try to get away from the very fact that

     your body is not your own, is it?

what a tragic creature, what a tragic thing, so awful that it can't recognise it's own desperation, yet so self pitying, convincing itself it's still the same after being so little the creature it was before, after ripping itself apart to try and find the answer, it's made of everything but itself, it longs for identity

      you snap at everyone who tries to help you, don't you?
      poor thing, do you even know how pitiful you've become

yet, yet! you keep fighting, don't you, you vile never-should-have-been thing, dying from the inside out and still so determined. every day is a challenge, every day is a miracle; you wonderous monstrosity, you beautiful freak, rolling down hills instead of walking

     and you'll keep going, won't you?

                                                          ­  won't you?

.
I feel I should note that this is directed towards myself and is an extremely personal experience of CFS/ME (as all are, honestly) that interplays with my own emotional state and therefore is far more, ah, hateful? Rude? -than I would make it were I writing generally, especially as this is about a more general overview of my particular experience in 'I feel like ****' than just cfs; a mixed bag, basically.
Kit Scott Aug 2019
when i was younger i use to dream
near constantly
of flying
of spreading my wings and soaring away to feel
so truly, like i really was up in the clouds,
the wind at my back, cloud-mist spraying my face and
tumbling through the centre of a storm, the rumble
of thunder and lightning crashing all around me.

an exhilarating, breathless kind of terrifying.

i do not dream of flying anymore, as reality seeps into all i do
i cannot read anymore without wishing, without hoping
frustration aches through me like an echo in an empty cave that
my body is a graveyard of failed opportunities
my trembling, fragile body so tired so always tired
and to think of flying exhausts me to the very bone

because i think now, if i gained the ability to fly, to soar away and forget the world
i would not have even the energy to flap my wings
I have myalgic encephalomyelitis, also known as ME or CFS, which stands for Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

It is not just being tired.

Would that I had the power to simply fly away and leave my body behind. And yet, with such a bone-, soul-deep exhaustion, would that even help?
Kit Scott Aug 2019
i believe in a gentle kind of love
all soft and soothing and
just right
when i am so terribly, irritatingly fragile
fingers running down my back while we lie
rib to rib, heart to heart
listening to the beat, and to the breath
and perhaps it is that, in this world of rough and tumble
of screaming and aching, to believe in a love kind and sweet is
a naivety but i find that
because of all this roaring outside our window, i much prefer
to think of that love sweet and kind
and us, tangled around each other, i think, yes

i find that i believe in a gentle sort of love
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