do it for the teenagers and do it for your mom
who's got the crack?
~
i am sick of the personal spillage that constitutes literary style.
i am sick of damning revelations.
i am sick of being uninteresting.
i am sick of hating myself all the fucking time.
backing over a curb should not leave me struggling for air for an hour;
there was clearly more to it than that.
sometimes i hate my short hair because i just want to be normal.
i want to be beautiful and have long hair and a fake smile and some morals and some guts and any kind of fucking talent at SOMETHING i could muster.
I HATE being the kids in the back who make fun of everyone--
i hate it.
even if their pants are fucking UGLY and too short they are braver than i am and i can't fucking sing to save my life and who am i to be the asshole who stops people from doing what they love for fear of ridicule?
i am not better than anyone.
i know that.
godDAMN it should be illegal to want someone that much.
it's unsafe.
it's not safe for me.
i am crushed
again and again and again.
& i still carry that story about you in my bag, everywhere, all four drafts, and i touch it sometimes when i need comfort.
"shit, i fucking wrote that. it was real."
never say the word us--
that's unsafe too.
again and again and again.
my eyes still hurt.
leave me alone.
what would happen if i pinned a STAY OUT sign to myself?
would you listen?
would i want you to?
(you'd listen. i wouldn't want you to.)
it scared me today that i had no one to love me. that everyone who's ever loved me i've pushed away or broken down. (and i know you're there and i'm sorry i'm discounting you, i'm sure you'll understand that sometimes you're more his than mine, and sometimes you're more mine than his, it's true, but you know...there it absolutely without a doubt fucking well is.)
"what's wrong with you,
why don't you like yourself?"
"AMERICA I WAS A COMMUNIST WHEN I WAS A KID
I'M NOT SORRY
I SMOKE MARIJUANA EVERY CHANCE I GET."
"everybody's serious but me."
even i find myself boring.
i apologize.
i don't want to apologize for my existence.
i don't want to be sorry.
i don't want to misspell anything ever again.
i want mystical visions, cosmic vibrations, and to go to chinatown, get drunk,
and never get laid.
the only way to stop being sorry is to start being angry.
there is no in-between.
this is why i am a bad person.
i want a fucking kimono.
i want to stop being destroyed every time you are upset with me.
i want to believe in the beauty of my motherfuckin dreams--
but i don't want to own the future.
the future is ours.
I WANT TO STOP THINKING ABOUT IT
i want you to be warm and next to me.
"AMERICA THIS IS QUITE SERIOUS.
AMERICA IS THIS CORRECT?
i better get right down to the job."
"oh yes you loved me once,
oh yes i loved you more."
"two hits.
me hitting you you hitting the floor."
throw yourself down.
i am terrible at erasing or censoring or editing.
THE BIG GUNS ARE COMING OUT.
oh lord i want your love.
i talk about my love for you so much-
so blatantly.
i never stopped to wonder if you love(d) me too.
probably not.
this knowledge will probably eat me alive.
i will be eaten alive by the memory of you and too much gin.
[i want to define things.
i want to put everyone i've ever loved into a dictionary.
maybe i will.]
"you don't have to be a super-genius to open your face up and sing."
~
i am sick of the personal spillage that constitutes literary style.
i am sick of damning revelations.
i am sick of being uninteresting.
i am sick of hating myself all the fucking time.
backing over a curb should not leave me struggling for air for an hour;
there was clearly more to it than that.
sometimes i hate my short hair because i just want to be normal.
i want to be beautiful and have long hair and a fake smile and some morals and some guts and any kind of fucking talent at SOMETHING i could muster.
I HATE being the kids in the back who make fun of everyone--
i hate it.
even if their pants are fucking UGLY and too short they are braver than i am and i can't fucking sing to save my life and who am i to be the asshole who stops people from doing what they love for fear of ridicule?
i am not better than anyone.
i know that.
godDAMN it should be illegal to want someone that much.
it's unsafe.
it's not safe for me.
i am crushed
again and again and again.
& i still carry that story about you in my bag, everywhere, all four drafts, and i touch it sometimes when i need comfort.
"shit, i fucking wrote that. it was real."
never say the word us--
that's unsafe too.
again and again and again.
my eyes still hurt.
leave me alone.
what would happen if i pinned a STAY OUT sign to myself?
would you listen?
would i want you to?
(you'd listen. i wouldn't want you to.)
it scared me today that i had no one to love me. that everyone who's ever loved me i've pushed away or broken down. (and i know you're there and i'm sorry i'm discounting you, i'm sure you'll understand that sometimes you're more his than mine, and sometimes you're more mine than his, it's true, but you know...there it absolutely without a doubt fucking well is.)
"what's wrong with you,
why don't you like yourself?"
"AMERICA I WAS A COMMUNIST WHEN I WAS A KID
I'M NOT SORRY
I SMOKE MARIJUANA EVERY CHANCE I GET."
"everybody's serious but me."
even i find myself boring.
i apologize.
i don't want to apologize for my existence.
i don't want to be sorry.
i don't want to misspell anything ever again.
i want mystical visions, cosmic vibrations, and to go to chinatown, get drunk,
and never get laid.
the only way to stop being sorry is to start being angry.
there is no in-between.
this is why i am a bad person.
i want a fucking kimono.
i want to stop being destroyed every time you are upset with me.
i want to believe in the beauty of my motherfuckin dreams--
but i don't want to own the future.
the future is ours.
I WANT TO STOP THINKING ABOUT IT
i want you to be warm and next to me.
"AMERICA THIS IS QUITE SERIOUS.
AMERICA IS THIS CORRECT?
i better get right down to the job."
"oh yes you loved me once,
oh yes i loved you more."
"two hits.
me hitting you you hitting the floor."
throw yourself down.
i am terrible at erasing or censoring or editing.
THE BIG GUNS ARE COMING OUT.
oh lord i want your love.
i talk about my love for you so much-
so blatantly.
i never stopped to wonder if you love(d) me too.
probably not.
this knowledge will probably eat me alive.
i will be eaten alive by the memory of you and too much gin.
[i want to define things.
i want to put everyone i've ever loved into a dictionary.
maybe i will.]
"you don't have to be a super-genius to open your face up and sing."