Girls like me (or; this again)

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.

4 notes

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.

6 notes