We’ve been sad for too long to give a shit about feeling sad.
I’ve viewed myself through the lens of history and I’ve flinched
at those mad and desperate movements I made, long ago
as if I was a bird caged, as if I could find joy in that cold chaos.
As afraid as I was, six years ago, when I realized I’d forgotten
what it was like to desire and to hunger,
there was a certain painful relish of the
absolute wreckage that followed after.
I was an arsonist, one who burnt myself and the world
altogether, with my pulse pounding in my temples
and a grin on my baby face.
Not that I was happy, but the calmness of after was a
newness I recognized.
Gone is that first blush of darkness; I find no charm
in feeling the rise of the old adversary.
I no longer flutter and writhe in my cage;
I crumple with very little feeling.
I’ve done this breakdown before, so now I self-destruct
by rote. Nothing, not even this swell of feeling,
raises my heart.
I watch this depression rear up again, basilisk in a soft skin,
with the blank eyes of roman statues, whispering
“Oh, this again.”
Girls like me don’t dream at night.
My body is falling apart,
the center cannot hold.
Wild flinging of limbs and
compulsive creaking of joints;
as an old house moans, so do
my knees and fingers and spine.
all to remind me of an ever nearing thing.
I wonder if I am uniquely aware of
death’s spindle like fingers upon my skin?
I wish I could walk across a room
without all of my despair.