Well, I still can’t write. Because reasons. Lots of stuff stuck in my head. But apathy.
Also, the upcoming move is kicking my ass. Even though I’m not actually doing anything. I kind of suspect that’s why I’m stuck in anhedonia-land. It’s like some evil plot that mental illness likes to play: Need to get something done? Tough! Time to put on the brakes and completely paralyze and defeat you! Whee!!!
Or rather: meh.
I feel like if I don’t post anything at all, I’ll completely lose momentum and also NO ONE WILL EVER READ ANYTHING I WRITE AGAIN. Because melodrama.
So you get more poetry. My poetry (sorry if you were hoping for something more clever). These are from my book I Am Not These Things. Which you can totally buy and I will be pennies richer.
There are times outside of the proscenium
When you, your tongue loosened by wine, and fire reflected in your eyes,
Become especially beautiful
Your laughter mirthful,
Alternating between throaty guffaws and the giddy giggles of guilty indulgence
You close space
And stop time
Spilling compliments and golden droplets of affection
To coat my palms And tuck into my heart’s back pocket
The waves of your hair, platinum mixed with straw
More often punished from view
Now resist constraint, twisted carelessly in a loose braid
Ready to swing away, unpartnered
Or perhaps only waiting for my fingers to cut in
And begin the dance
When you holler
Hey baby Hey baby
Looking good baby
Look over here, beautiful
I get angry because
How do you know I’m beautiful
Just by looking at me
When you don’t even know me
I distinctly remember being much more mature for my age
When I was your age
And more respectful of my mother
Don’t believe your grandmother, though
Because she wasn’t nearly as understanding as I am
When she was my age