TIKKUN OLAM

I don’t really have any new year’s resolutions. I’ve come to the conclusion that I will undergo change whether or not I make a list. I don’t think I can fully control or predict who I become, and I have never been able to. I pick up new hobbies, listen to different bands, strengthen and weaken aspects of my personality, meet new people, and it’s not because I resolved to do it. It happens. I don’t think making lists is futile nor do I think it is pointless. It’s just never been a source of motivation for me. I just accept that in a year from today, I will be a different and unpredictable person.

in the lamp light i watched the

smoke climb from the puckered

mouth of a candle, white fishlines

and the grey haze dancing higher

and away from the blue dripping

wax, glass jar with dead flame. 

they twirled like blonde girl

ringlets or baby blue ribbons,

and disappeared into the dark-

ness of an empty room.

there are christmas lights,

but no snow.

we share hiccups and

cold hands, but

we are separated by 

many things.

tonight we call ourselves

family 

like children calling dust

snow.

i am a barren wasteland of a

girl. overflowing heaps of trash

and shit that are picked up by wind,

thrown back down to tangle with

barb wire fences and the sign

that says no trespassing, no

fickle girls allowed, and the

pretty suburban house behind it

yawns with its open door,

waiting.

you laid down your bricks

in the wrong place.

i am the jacket she tosses on

and forgets to button, a thrift

store gem, hand me down cotton

from a girl who kissed boys

and cigarettes but is now too

old for liveliness.

i am each wrinkle swimming

up to the surface to catch

the light, i am turquoise

blue like chipped girl finger-

nails, i am the broken zipper,

i am the pockets she shoves

hands into to keep warm.

i am an oversized coat

hanging on her shoulders,

burying a girl who looks 

at the world as if it were 

staring at her with a question

oh girl with the turquoise jacket, 

oh girl with the cold stare,

how do you stay warm?

Today in the parking lot I watched a woman shove her shopping cart away from her instead of bringing it to where it belonged. It flew past parking spaces, sometimes curving left or right, its wheels wobbling, until it ran into a red SUV. The woman watched for a moment, leaning against her own car. Her face was perfectly blank. She slid into the driver’s seat and drove away.

It’s gotten to the point where I don’t know if I’m in the position of the watching woman, the shopping cart or the silent SUV taking yet another blow. I don’t really know what’s going on anymore.

i can feel a fever in my hands. i don’t take care of myself anymore, i stay inside and yes i skipped dinner the third time this week, i’m sorry. it’s not on purpose. i just forget or tell myself that i don’t need it, and the hunger always goes away and i’m alright. skinny. i can feel skinniness all over my fucking body. i can feel it everywhere, as i slip between crowds and squeeze between a cracked open door, i can feel it. i stay up too late. i don’t take medicine when i should and i take it when i shouldn’t. i walked two blocks to buy someone dinner but didn’t get anything for me. skinny. i don’t know why i do this. i slip into the four year long feeling and i forget to take care of myself, two weeks will pass, and i’ll remember medicine at 6:15, breakfast, lunch, dinner, eight hours of sleep, breathing.

skinny.

pergjithmone:

I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe
but belief is a
graveyard.

- Charles Bukowski

I came home and sat in the car and sang along to Radiohead, it was just me, alone, and outside it was cold and quiet, it was nighttime, i don’t really feel quite right said something inside my mind, so i stayed inside my car and sang along to Radiohead with the heat all the way up and my hands clenching the steering wheel, i couldn’t even bring myself to cry but i could bring myself to sing and to sink into the night in december, this godforsaken month laced in nostalgia

i haven’t hit my worst

when i feel sadness

i’ve hit my worst

when i can’t feel

anything.

Read More →

what’s in

fifteen pounds?

is it my body

or is it something

deeper that i let go

of staring up at

the ceiling

bottles on the

floor

lights off

fan whirring

i let go 

and lost 

fifteen

pounds.

what’s in fifteen pounds?

is it muscle, is it

fat, is it blood or is

more than the 

loss of the body,

did i lose everything

that summer, even

now, when i lost

those five, ten,

fifteen

pounds?

imagine seeing a construction site

covered in snow

you’ve been watching 

cranes tear apart

roads until they became

dirt

imagine it covered in snow,

orange from the street lamp

dim light, overhead moonlight.

imagine the underneath

(ugliness is always covered

by snow, by 

snow)

on washington avenue 

i hear a boy say into his telephone

“his drinking is out of his

control. it’s an

addiction, he doesn’t 

drink for fun anymore.

he does it because

he has to.”

i wonder if someone

thinks the same of me:

addicted to self-

loathing, sadness,

to pain and to 

heartbreak, and even to

numbness.

maybe somewhere, someone

is saying into their telephone

“her sadness is out of her

control, it’s an addiction.

she doesn’t hate herself

for fun anymore

she does it

because she has to.”