Shades of Gray

It’s not black or white, but

it’s certainly not shades of

gray.

Because these operate on one dimension

which is not to say that there is

no depth to the colors, but that

words like ‘murky’ are inadequate

because murky has no shape or texture–

texture, temperature: properties of

sentience.

Depth is not an empty space in your emotion/being

An artist, singer, dancer, poet

would love to fall

fall as if it were effortless, an

unimpeded descent

into

you.

But I know you

r more shallow depths

at least

and I felt the crumbs of static

mouse-bite-sized

nuboso

cotton wisp-er, clinging to my

hand

damp, dissipating

gray

deep

difficult to see

dark, tepid*.

As I fall,

my light reveals

3 inches from my body

my next encounter*

with sentience.

My next fall.

But 3 inches is not enough to

think, plan, prepare

so I sink and

I fall and

I feel all over again.

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in the hospital, it was as if i was suddenly suspended.

the motion around me did not stop, but i did.

i did not get a sense of being left out of the picture-

rather, for the first time, the picture was me.

i was 12 years old when i first remember thinking to myself,

“i wish i had a bigger butt”.

i believe that for some reason, i have a very close connection with the universe.

i know that when i ask,

be it within reason,

i shall receive.

as i grew, my body grew.

my body grew, and i did not like it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” i told the universe.

but the universe did not listen.

i found a few diet books.

i found a few recipes.

i found a new exercise.

but i did not find my old body.

on the inside, i was a child

but on the outside i was a woman

the dissonance was fraying my edges.

i felt as if i were standing in an old tv screen during an electric storm.

i picked away at my food.

i picked away at my body.

i grabbed a toothbrush and prostrated before a toilet

i bent at the knees and buckled at the spine.

“out, out damned spot!”

—————————————

when i arrived in the hospital, i felt like a child.

i was so happy.

i wanted to be a child.

i wanted to be happy.

i thought they would help me be a better child

but instead they conquered me.

they made me more woman than i ever have been.

and i cried for months.

my old body was a young body.

but my new body is an old body.

i just want my image to be a reflection of myself

i want to be the child i am.

so if alcohol kills the liver

and smoke kills the lungs,

then where does my childhood strike?

why does everyone else get to self destruct but me?

Am I Optional?

sometimes i look at everything-

it’s a weird concept, i know.

“why don’t you see everything all the time”

well it’s just so much work

but that’s another story.

 

so sometimes i look at everything and i get real sad because i realise that 

“what outfit should i wear today”,

“will you help me hang this up?”,

and

“hey do you want to go get lunch?”

all don’t include me.

i’m kinda an after thought, like the tittle on an i, or the tattle on a t

dot me but don’t cross me.

“this girl’s a mystery!” they scream

i would put this in parentheses, the way i feel, like an afterthought, but

that would be giving to much credit to the designers.

i am optional.

 

this would all be fine, except the worst part is that i am optional to everyone

including myself

and i need to need someone

i need to

because if i didn’t i’d feel nothing

this pinch on my cheek would feel like nothing

my burning finger would feel like nothing 

this necklace would feel like nothing

my mothers death would feel like nothing

so you see i need to need someone

but i’m optional

i don’t need myself.

so i kinda just fiddle around until i get it right.

i’ll get it right eventually.

yeah

Here

I have such a beautiful life, here.

Everything is good, here.

I am happy, here, take my hand.

All I’ve ever wanted was to move inside you

A sign that what I am is not who I thought I was because I am broken on the inside.

But that doesn’t matter anymore

because I am happy, here.

The sense of melancholy that taints everything I do,

It does not exist, here.

Hear the way my heart beats?

It screams out my name! 

Lies! Lies! at the tops of lungs. Sweet.

 

Starving Artist

One time, I wrote a poem about pizza.

The pizza was good, but the poem was not.

The pizza was cold, but still pizza

aromatic

sensual

exciting

But the poem was dripping.

Turning dark under my fingers.

Dali moved in and the poem, [which was like cardboard]

grew in my fingers and melded to a syrup consistency.

My fingers touched each other, and I pulled

Them apart and they spread slowly

slow motion 

And slowly the poem grew warm and started to slip from my hand.

I licked my fingers

 

And pulled the pizza out of the microwave.

[i am ashamed of myself]

i am scared to share my thoughts

my thoughts are s c a t t e r e d

They do not exist in transit.

Most seem to have thoughts in chains

Long, unbroken streams of consciousness

Every link logical and fluid

A liquid beauty that ties down, captures, restrains.

my thoughts feel like ELECTRONS

pop! into my frontal lobe

[i am a starting thought]

pop! into my temporal memories

[i am a second thought]

pop! out of my mouth

[i am the unrelated response]

There is no chain.

They appear at will, with no in between steps.

pop!

pop!

A raven is like a writing desk!

pop!

pop!

I am scared to say what I think!

[you make me feel ashamed of myself]