Jan 29
--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
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
