According to men
original sin is a woman
tempted by knowledge.
Naked and ignorant and perfect
for a blissful life of child-rearing
And wifely duties
She gave up paradise to learn.
Her moral failing was
To fill her mind
Not her *****

We are taught the first sin
According to men
Was a woman who learned--
Learned there is more than what her veiled eyes see
A woman sought enlightenment
Truth corrupts powerfully enough
To bring a world crashing down

It always sounded so simple
As a child
I heard the rule, the man’s rule:
don’t eat the apple
And I thought
what a stupid woman
Doesn’t she appreciate what she has?
With only one no in a world of yes
Why did she do it, why couldn’t she resist?

Now I admire her.

She would rather
The real world, with it’s pain
and labor and fault
Than one constructed for her by a god
who wants her to know little enough
to accept it as perfect.

The crime was questioning the paradigm.
And whenever examination of a system
Is deemed unacceptable
Don’t we know there is a problem
Hiding?

easily found by a brave woman
With curiosity,
Willing to lose everything
To know what she doesn’t know

At a certain point                I stop picking up the phone
I can’t do it anymore                 no more pretending, I’m tired.
I sigh myself awake                     blink dry eyes that I wish would tear.
And I wonder what                     could I possibly feel deeply again?
This day could answer for but                   I realize it's a void. Yet
My slack face lifts at the thought               there’s still alcohol to help
I could oblivion myself                  pummel through till tomorrow
What a brutal relief                             this animal body needs rest
This overworked mind is best                   left entirely alone in the dark
Sparked with substance and nothing          more than emptiness itself.

I think I have to be good

Check the boxes and qualify

Every step on my good girl walk

Brings me nearer to earning a place

Arriving at yes, arriving at rest.

Travel travel travel

The road of thank you for having me

Thank you for being here

Hold my hand when I tell you

There is no arrival.

I will support your downfall if you ask me to
I will tilt the brick to trip the foot of your leg, leg, hip
I will cobweb your path and catch in your eye
Stick to your face like a smile never could
I will be so helpful at undoing you
If that’s what you want.

All I ask
Is that you do the same.

I have a sore in the back of my mouth
Like a leech eating under my molar it’s always raw
My tongue searches it out
And I’m reminded of those blind eels
Feeling my way in the darkness
Detecting only by pain
And a feathered texture
As if someone took a cheese grater to my gums
“If this is your way of getting me to notice you--
It’s working”
I think to the leech, as my eel tongue tries again to feast

--After Aidan Choi "stomach pains"--

I am hungry, not for food for sustenance.

I am hungry for acceptance. Eyes to meet mine and steady instead of nervous twitch. I am hungry for the calories to fill my blood with the sugar of love, the honey of affection; of intentional timing and attention i carry the accidents of my own and his and hers on a back not built for loads and like laundry I cycle and spill and crumple and filth. I linger in the smell of use. I’m comfortable with the stiff because to release is to trust and to trust is to relinquish and this burden must be carried 1 to 3 to thirty three.

Speaking of, time to take my happy pill. Time to keep someone alive. For me but not for you, you don’t have the time to relax with a child and raise it like a lamb for slaughter in the capitalism ranch, you don’t have the house to fill with ghosts from a childhood you aren’t sure is yours though you still have the memories; did it happen did          it         happen.?

I am fearful I might slip again, tearful that I’m here at the park pushing the swing and watching my pendulum get closer and closer to the edge where I’d like to be over, just topple me and I’ll cease to be anyone’s problem though she may have a few arise with a mom she can’t remember who’d rather die than try.

Depression is not romantic. It’s not sadness. it’s not what makes me creative. It’s not a goth girl in bulky headphones who is actually the one who rescues you, my eyes glaze and my teeth chatter when i’m hungry. I’m not here to save you with emotional depth and salty quips.

I’m waiting for this illness to turn me into an artist. Will suicide dreams become easier to hide under rhythmic words and clever rhymes? I’ve found that to be the case. I’m a starving artist who is fat with remorse and binging and watching. I eat with my eyes and everything I see I want to gobble to justify this turkey neck. When you see the art do you remember what’s right and wrong with the artist?

Shoot my guts twisting and i’m still hungry
Maybe it’s time to eat myself
I look in the mirror and unload
I see myself and I feast

Where will I go?
What will I do?--
These are questions
I don’t want answers to

I don’t want plans
And fantasies
I don’t want hidden stashes
Or fake smiles

I don’t want running shoes...
I want staying slippers.