I don’t take care of myself is the thought I usually have after I’ve had one too many pieces of pizza, am amidst the pains of a break-up, am sleeping with someone to make myself feel better about said break-up or buy another black pair of heels that I’ll only wear one to three times and most definitely can’t afford. I enter a drastic place of loneliness, self-doubt, borderline depressive thinking and my brain quite quickly jumps to the absolute worst part of the reality of where the situation is about to hit the fucking fan, only fueling more bad behavior.
Skimming the headlines, searching,
There is always searching,
For something to bring me current.
From the bottom of my bottle to the
Top of my head, I stand invisible and
Feel like the world has left me behind
To go about its business unaware
That I am standing here, screaming:
“Fucking leave it be already.”
The pounding of that sledgehammer
Seems silent compared to the
Stance my head has taken. Thoughts
Seem to be stolen by the insatiable
Urge to stand alone, still.
Calm has seemed a distant future
And more loss a probable outcome
Until additional inaudible cries will
Be heard and then there
Is you: All shiny and bright like
A fucking pink and purple cloud
Of cotton candy and slowly
The death march I’ve been running to and fro
Teasing myself and it back and forth
And forth again looks me dead in the eye
And has me, just like that. It all falls
Aside and deliberately, my eyes
Widen as my hips loosen and I remember
To cry and dance and that there is a sunrise
That has my name on it, just waiting to be
Seen after a late night fuck fest only sealed
By your kiss.
(I can’t help to feel. I feel. God damnit, I
Feel like I can’t fall and then there,
I feel I’ve fallen for your kiss and it’s all sealed by your deal.)
There’s this girl I watch
a couple times a week:
Stringy hair, thin frame,
carefree style, opinionated
in her silence and mousiness,
(mousiness in the sense of being subtle
and not in her looks), which I like.
She brings her lunch in little plastic baggies,
nibbling on her homemade
peanut butter and jelly
sandwich with the crust still on.
As if she’s trying to hide
something from everyone around her,
she checks out.
Munching on her sandwich
with intent, her thoughts seem
to overrule the feast of the
fruit in her mouth.
She finishes her lunch off with
a bruised banana, chewing slowly, not
losing her resolve to fulfill
her hunger. She wraps the peel
up quietly, tucking it in on
top of her purse, waiting to
dispose of it, not wanting to
draw attention to her awkward
walk across the room.
Her lack of shower, (maybe she
had a bird bath instead) which
I know is to save the water, is
a reminder of my own choices to
do the same: Save the planet. I
envision her standing in front of
her vanity mirror, scrubbing her
arm pits with a faded yellow
wash cloth, which was probably
her grandma’s while humming songs
to some anti-government band from
years before, making sure to avoid
changing her underwear.
All of this reminds me of a time in my own life where:
We drank a lot,
fucked a lot,
fought a lot.
We were opinionated,
Life seemed to pass us by,
exist only in it debauchery,
remind us of our nemesis.
We crawled into bottles
to hide our resentments,
our lackluster views of society.
We chastised our leaders who lied to us,
our drug dealers who stole from us,
the bums on the street who got their
booze for free.
We sang songs screaming for justice,
wrote poems begging for silence,
and passed out every night in our own puke.
I think of those times and don’t
miss them one bit.
But, I just wouldn’t trade them
for anything. Sometimes,
pain is the great motivator and
stinky armpits are the reminder
that I need to shake it up once
in a while, despite my age.
So, I thank you little girl, (not in
a bad way, but in the way that
I was truly a little girl pretending
to be all grown up, too). You reminded
me of “my roots, my rock, my reggae.”
So not feeling any of these feelings right now.
I walk through the front door and immediately feel
like I’ve tossed myself into a huge fucking pot of
boiling water, like that lobster you watch on television
die over and over again. Once with your eyes and
so many more times in your brain. Or at least I do.
So, I walk into this front door and I’m immediately
picked up by these cold metal tongs. My arms and
legs begin flailing around and I begin to sweat.
Where am I going? What is going on? Why am I here?
The fear begins to penetrate my thick shelled outside and
suddenly I’m tossed into boiling water and for a split subject
I freak the fuck out and make this weird screaming noise that
won’t ever be forgotten and then, I die. I’m dead. Or I might
as well be because this fucking boiling pot of water sucks way more than death.
I used to lay on the tattered tan brown carpet of my boyfriend’s room in 2000 and listen to that album Kid A by Radiohead. I listened to so much more in that room, on his little boombox with him, but it was during this album that we made out and he asked me to be his girlfriend. The sun blazed through the blinds and made vertical lines for me to trace while I dove deeper into his hypnotic voice that in of itself was inspiring. But, to then add those precious words of everything being in their right place and I was sold on all of it. And, I was young. Not so much dumb. But, searching. And, I was all in.