I used to write all sorts of things–poetry, prose, vignettes, fiction. Nowadays I mostly do this, plus a letter here and there, and then my journal. When I’m feeling good to myself, or when I’m feeling alone.
I used to write things that rhymed, that followed a form.
I used to read these things out loud, in front of people, to dare to expose myself. I used to say openly that I wanted to be a writer.
Was it naivete? Or just one of the many pieces of myself that I let fall by the wayside?
Lately, I’ve been picking up the pieces. Saturday night, in my delirium, I wrote something that rhymes.
* * *
The Things That Come Out of My Mouth These Days
I said: “Everyone dies alone, and I want to be ready.”
I said: “A boyfriend is someone I lead around for a while and then cheat on.”
How quickly I forget, then, push past, and move.
(Slam shut the book and start the next chapter. Or burn down the stacks, just to see what comes after.)
Lately nothing is enough but to hold and be held, to touch and be touched, be bold, break my shell. My limp life strung between one embrace and the next, wanting pain, to be squeezed, to bend, bruise and blush.
(Run ’til it burns, or starve, or sing.)
20-hour day delirium, where sleep is no friend, and I find myself, dressed to the nines on a porch, words spilling forth like champagne uncorked, and I am foaming at the mouth.
I am racing, feeding, chattering, needing. Tensing, resting, lusting, obsessing. Tired of working, raw and hurting. I am crying, smoking, lying, joking. Then laughing, playing. Losing. Fading.
Til I tap, tap, tap. Get it out on the page.
(Try to stifle that rage.)
Try to sleep. Alone. Tonight.