We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely. We write as the birds sing, as the primitives dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it. When I don’t write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
Anaïs Nin, ”The New Woman”
It’s only been a week into September
and he’s already caught me sobbing thrice,
tearing at my skin with a vengeance as if
I could find a way to disappear as long
as I ripped myself apart. He says he wants
to fix me, but god does he not understand.
Stop thinking of the sad things, he says, as if
there is a switch in my brain I have stubbornly
refused to turn off. As if I have the power
to stem this flood but I am choosing instead
to wade into the open waters. I want
to tell him that if happiness was a matter
of checking ‘yes’ on a form instead of ‘no’,
I would have fucking checked it, damn you.
That nobody chooses to wander through life
like a ghost without a home to haunt. But I
see it in his eyes. He thinks he can fix me.
What I want to say is that once upon a
time, I had a great fall, and no power in this
world can ever put me back together again.
"Humpty Dumpty, Or, I Don’t Have The Heart To Tell Him I’m A Lost Cause", by ironedout
I think about you. But I don’t say it anymore.
You write shitty poetry that
makes me feel nothing, but maybe
that’s just because none of it
is about me.
That’s all I wanted to say.
Sorry. You don’t deserve this,
but I want to be spiteful and
you’re my favorite person
to bring back from the dead.
So now that you’re here,
I’ll take my mouth and bury it
next to yours, pretend that
there wasn’t already
dirt in my teeth from the
last time I did this.
I don’t know what lonely is,
but it tastes like you.