poem 2

what happened that night felt like a period.

now i step back and read the sentence.

being with you felt like a sentence.

feelings are not fact.
is what you have to say important?
do i need to hear it?
does everyone really deserve the right to contribute a verse?
you can stop reading this right now.
i would prefer that you did.

i edited those 6 sentences at least 43 times, and this one twice.
they are all bad.
i don't care about grammar but stroking this keyboard has become ritual.
religious.

creating does not feel important anymore.
talking about you does not feel healing.
my aversion to sharing has become philosophy, and my disdain for selling myself feels philanthropic.

no one needs another artist.
demanding resources for successfully identifying emotions is not made any less selfish by being done in the name of creation.
masturbating in front of an audience and naming it art does not make it any less vulgar.
i feel pride. i am an artist.
i feel sad now give me $15. i am a local artist.
i feel that feeling you feel right after you cum.
i am going to sleep.

I take three very tiny white pills every night right before bed.
i occasionally accompany them with one slightly larger pink tablet.
this pink is unique, It’s almost blue.
If I’ve ever seen this color before in my life that moment was not momentous.

My eyes are closed.
I snack at new skin on my lip.
I taste wine and imagine my teeth.
Beige or maroon or off white, some shade of yellow.
never white.
i remember breakfast after sex.
i remember leaving my door unlocked for you.

i open my choice social media application of the moment, my phone perceives me, and before i could so much as realize my eyes are open i am connected to everything.

this feels dangerous.

my online portrayal of vulnerability has become exhausting.
this feels like making art.
FUCK.
THIS.

authentic confusion from a seemingly honest feeling of profoundness in a staining moment of insignificance somehow makes me feel important.

i don't feel good but i do feel.
i am exhausted but i am not tired.

my non tangible emotions travel through a byzantine conduit in my brain.
an organ that does not feel.
my feelings are exchanged for words.
now i think.

i remember that i am not important at all.

the sensation of insignificance is back, this time without virtue.

a language i didn't request to learn robs me of my integrity.
what else is new?

white tongue. pink cheeks.
language was created to transcend loneliness, so the irony of words making me feel alone is not lost on me.
i give up.
nothing feels important.
everything feels stupid.
you are stupid.
i am stupid.
white tongue. pink cheeks.

i am back in bed.
now there is water.
i do not remember getting up.
tonight my small pills have met my smaller pills.
pink has met white.
eyes have met eyelids.
i will sleep.
i will not move.
i will not talk to you or anyone else.
i will not eat.
i will not plant or replant.
i will not cry or prance around.
i will sleep.
no one's white will meet my pink.
or my brown.
or my beige.
i will sleep alone.

on nights like these i dance with self-doubt and insecurities.

the lighter my limbs the slimmer the chance i have at inflicting impact.
i am protected in mediocrity.
i am nothing.
i am thinner than air.
i am floating.

i am Jacqueline's lazy ovary forbidding her from carrying the weight of enlightenment.
forever licensed to be enjoyed, and released.

filled up but never held down.

i waft past the treehouse.

this feels important.

his white now pink. my blue.

i am sleeping

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