ugh i was looking at old photos of me (from like two years ago or even last year) and I was prettier back then, before I lost weight and my face turned all hollow and yuck.
I just really really really love Milton ok.
I know I always write this, but this has been the longest uninspired period of my writing. I’m not a terribly serious writer or anything but it used to be something I sort of felt compelled to do? I can’t write anymore, mostly because I’m so fucking tired of the same things I always talk about. like I talk about:
- the moon
- the ocean
- deer/animals/but 4 reel mostly deer/also birds like ugh
- art (michelangelo, or whatevs)
- mythological characters
- space and shit
- gardens ‘n green shit
I’m so tired of myself, and I don’t even want to write these tired poems anymore. They’re always addressed to someone, usually whatever stupid boy I’m pining over, (“oh sweetheart, tell me you know the tides the way you know the folds of my skin” VOM)
I miss you. Please reach out.
I can’t explain this ache but it is coming now and it makes it hard to be near you. It is the same things you say that cause this same ache, and I hate that this repetition continues. I hate that despite the antibodies of your past words, I am still infected with them every time, with equal severity. It wounds me, these things you say and I cannot tell you. But you’re lying to yourself as much as me. I wish that made me feel better.
I haven’t been able to write a single thing for months. No poems or anything else. This is my longest period of silence and I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I even have these two or three amorphous ideas in my head about potential poems but I can’t do anything with them; I’ve tried but I just can’t. I’m confused by this…????
Happy Birthday to me! I’m an old lady now. I’m celebrating in Florence tonight so I feel pretty good.