Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#4 Roxies

She keeps my
flesh tingling, eyes racing in
tippy-tappy motions, smile
unceasing, pounds increasing,
tongue stuck to the back of my throat.

Fingers twisting, spine cracking,
knuckles clenching to the beat of
my ears expanding, mind’s tripping,
treading water to keep me afloat.

Sitting, legs trembling,
lip biting, eyes darting
keeping watch for –
don’t do it, just walk away from it
keep chanting, fully knowing
despite feeling sick and found wanting
I still want more.

Keep denying, procrastinating
healing for one more day
Anxiety killing, stress reducing,
how can this be as bad as they say?

Self-deluding, self-loathing,
you’ve gone so far you forgot you were drowning,
enjoy this brief reprieve, you haven’t much time to give,
you’ve become your own demon just so you can live.

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#72

3:59 in the early morning trying to explain my depression like,
in between bouts of: “Have you tried running everyday?”
YES!
“Tell me about it.”
As if I haven’t, as if this was a challenge he was certain I would fail.
6 months does not tell the story of the multitude of tries I spent
biking to the gym, running at the gym, running circles at my old school track
trying to forget about going home,
euphoric nights spent at the treadmill because I thought self-improvement was the answer
to my otherwise, dying brain.

That eating quinoa and pinning “healthy vegan recipes” on my pinterest accounts
and then going home from a 9 to 5 job and singing in a sunlit kitchen while cooking delicacies
will somehow
prevent the lump in my throat from forming at 9:30 in the morning,
afraid that the man who calls himself my boss suddenly transforms into
another man who called himself my friend and then took me without my say
as soon as the wrong song comes on the radio and triggers me –
until I am left with the memories I tried so hard to bury inside
and I lose track of time.

Is exercise and a healthy diet the magical cure that will wipe my slate clean off trauma?

I clung to that idea a long time ago, nurtured it so obsessively
that it ran rampant in my brain and cultivated blind faith.
I am getting better, each incline higher on the treadmill.
I am getting better, each kg added to the weight.
I am getting better, each less serving of salt in every meal.

And then it happens –
a dark monster clad in black tar nicotine that stains everything it touches –
it curdles your meals, brittles your bones
and creates a haven in your only prison – your bed, your mind, my dear.

This is something you can’t comprehend unless you’ve experienced it:
When you start seeing what they think is a permanent solution to a temporary problem
As your one, and only moment of agency –
as the one night when your body decided to take action against your villainous,
ever agonizing mind,
when you’ve finally turned off the endless background noise of a world you have never fully understood,
and welcomed the purifying powers of silence,
and let it lay down on the palm of your hands
that are at long last, still,
un-shaking, un-nervous,

at peace.

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#70

Darling,

Last night you were stable. You opened yourself up in ways I didn’t know was possible, in ways that made me marvel in awe at the heightened sense of your vulnerability. You mumbled whimsical thoughts about the books you read and of Cartesian planes and fourth dimensions, and Chomsky and Dostoevsky as if they were your old friends. You told me about your past so voluntarily; your nakedness so willing, so wanting of someone to look into your soul and partake in the misery with you.

“Don’t mind me, I’m mumbling,” you said, your eyes shying away from me for one second, folding into yourself as much as your lean body would allow, the hump in your shoulder growing. My eyes did not stray; it stayed, focused unto the spot I knew your eyes would land back on – and I was right, there you are, once again, locking eyes with me, begging me to listen, so I did.

I am but a vessel in which you see self-destruction in stasis; a dim light of hope you carry with you at your darkest, the phone clutched in your hand, enfolded close to your chest, your breathing fast and panicked, anxiety your constant sleeping companion. You call me when you are feeling better, not when you’re lost in the fog of your medication’s doing, not when you’re so sad you forget what you did yesterday, what you were supposed to do today, which is anything else but going to a hardware store and buying a coil of rope.

You pry me to talk about myself, and when I do, you interrupt, worriedly, and repeat, “I thought you were doing okay,” and I do everything else but carve out the truth in front of you – that we seek each other’s companionship only at our best, never at our worst, that while your unhappiness can be seen through the way your fingers tremble while clutching at your coffee, at your ever rounding shoulders, at the books you can’t finish, my unhappiness is sketched into my skin, that this is what we share in common above everyone else – unhappiness at its core, inseparable unhappiness, escapism so badly desired that we’re grateful for seconds of it, because it’s our every day that weighs us.

They tell us that to be human is to struggle, because it’s the struggle that makes us stronger, more resilient. You have eight more years of struggle past me. You remind me of the defeat and panic waiting for me at the edge of my years. I remind you of your youth – self-destruction in stasis, just sleeping.

We are perfect for each other; misery loves company. I’m the only person you can turn to and say, “I’ve forgotten the faces of our friends,” and I recount them for you, in as much detail as possible, to help you remember what you tried so hard to forget. You’re the only person I can turn to and say, “I buried three pairs of razors outside of my window,” and not have to elaborate, not have to expand, just a warm touch from your shivering, worn hand that says, “I understand.”

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #60

My the Day is Mighty Angry – revisited,
Roxies keeping my spine tinglin’, hands shakin’,
crystal blue, orange spheres or white powder –
every lie to tell your beautiful face in the morning
that you’re progressing.

Because you’ve come full circle, dear,
the only difference now
is a change of
setting
and a different cast of
characters.

Same
goddamn
plot.

How many more blood-marked eyelids
are you going to smother in make-up
so no one notices
your pupils as wide as the beating sun?

Those vibrating pulsations rolling down
the wrinkles on your skin
will someday break,
rupture in cadaverous flesh
revealing the chemical ecstasy carved
underneath your
numb nerves.

Get down on your knees and realize
this face bears no resemblance
to who you once were –
now just a slave
to this in-betweening life,
recycled poetry,
stretched out lips that vomits
hollow, empty smiles –

Insanity is your only way out, dear,
Madness is your emergency exit.

What the hell is the point
of this whole goddamn joint
anyway.

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Day to Day Poetry # 50

Read one of Bukowski’s posthumous poems,
sing to Gronlandic Edit,
scroll through endless pictures on Deviantart,
lick dry lips,
pound down old, black coffee,
read one of Hemingway’s short stories
compiled in an anthology given by your best friend
using a dried, marijuana leaf for a bookmark,
sing to Oxford Comma,
remember the way the smooth curve of her back felt
underneath your fingers,
regret all the friendships you’ve lost,
write a crappy poem,
attempt to re-establish yourself
in an apathetic world,
remember the way he rambled about
our Type 0 civilization,
while you laid horizontally on his bed,
wondering when to go,
count the hours, minutes and seconds
of his return,
bearing the gift that will keep you awake
until 6 in the morning –
the one thing you’ve been waiting for
since you ran out
four days ago –
addiction is seeking comfort
from that which is destroying you –
because real life stopped doing it for you
a long time ago,
waiting endlessly for Godot,
how long can this clever, cover-up story
and day-to-day charade
keep going
before it catches up to you?

Hemingway said
that all it takes is one unnecessary word
in your narrative
to transform it
into an ego trip
rather than a
story.

6:49 PM.
Just enough time for another lit incense,
and a paragraph from Sartre,
before you offer your brain and creativity
as sacrifice,
just to feel
moderately
okay.

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