not in the sense of making things here disappear (i’ve had enough of that nonsense and erasure), but in the sense of writing poems on paper first. and sometimes even last. i’ve tried to memorize too many of my own verses and expecting this internet/online addiction to come through and bring me here, heh. bring me magically to this blog, to these pages, and place itself on display.
i have relatives to visit.
i have a family relationship to mend.
i have a few online relationships to break decisively.
and then i have to reassure myself that i’m not a flake. i don’t overthink. i’m not overreacting and i’m not being a bitch. i should not beat myself up when i expect the highest common denominator of respect and i get the lowest. i should wonder why i’m so desperate for something — some connection beyond what’s in my head, what i hope to have in my heart — that i keep the lowest common denominator of respect going.
it’s time to grapple with that scary idea that maybe i’m not the center of my world. that though i’ve tried to act as if i am, place my thoughts/feelings/realities/instincts first for my health and sanity, i’m cloaking other people’s signals and intentions in my clothes and my patterns of thinking and ignoring what i’m feeling. my body is the only body i inhabit, my brain is the only brain i have, and so why am i so busy wondering what other people think and feel about this body and brain i own? what fucking difference does it make if i don’t think much of it to pay it any attention?
keeping my words to myself and not performing for some invisible audience — those motivations are likely the most productive uses of my anger. the places where people aren’t compelled to reassure or to rescue are the places i need to go.