I cut out my tongue.

Articulation used to feel so natural.
I am out of practice.
I never considered myself a master of rhetoric and language,
but I prided myself in my ability to fluidly and coherently
translate my thoughts into words.
I was my own best stenographer—
dutifully and obediently transcribing
my investigations, analyses and conclusions,
passions, anxieties and recollections of time and place
into sentences, stringing my sentiments together
like pearls on a necklace.
With my metaphorical spinning wheel,
I would try my best to make sense of my situations,
spinning straw into gold, twisting wool into a unified thread,
and trying to weave these errant strands into a blanket of understanding.
This process used to feel so effortless.
And it was therapeutic.

These days, expression is like
prying impacted teeth,
like I’m grasping at straws, and trying, in vain,
to pull the unbudging sword from the stone.

Articulation was much easier when I was writing for someone.
I wanted to be eloquent. I wanted to be graceful.
I wanted to communicate matters of the heart
soundly, thoroughly and candidly.

Bereavement has yielded a loss for words.

A friend recently told me that he has an affinity for my art
because I don’t create for a larger audience.
I create for just one other.
He saw that my art-making acts as a quiet action waiting to be noticed
by an object of affection, and explained that the beauty behind my art
resided in my actions going unnoticed.

I fail to see that beauty.

The state of my union is not well.
I feel immobilized.
I feel alienated.
I feel alone.
I want to write for someone.
I want to paint for someone.
I want to sing for someone.
I want to nest for someone.
And now that I can’t, I feel frozen.
I don’t know what to do.

I don’t feel relevant.
I don’t feel poignancy.
I don’t feel like I have anything important to say.

I made love the content of my life.
Love is what kept me invested.
But when your mating call goes unanswered,
what are you supposed to do?
You can only sing for so long before losing for voice.
You can only spend so many nights out on the widow’s peak,
furiously scanning the horizon,
before losing your will to continue.

I hate sounding so desperate,
But I am desperate.

I want to do things for myself,
but it feels entirely too selfish.

I would feel the greatest joy
in having the opportunity
to make someone happy.

I know boys don't wear jewels, but I'd wear a string of your pearls.

I’ve whispered with the wild flowers stitched onto my mattress,
and gossiped with the wives living in the watercolors on my walls—
they know how anxious I am to love.
Sometimes, we’ll burn the midnight oil—
under a cathedral built from wooden chairs, broomsticks and old bed sheets—
sipping a sweetened whisky brew,
gathering wool and spinning his golden image
from straw and scraps of fancy:

Sturdy and steadfast, graceful and diplomatic.
Eloquent and sincere, protecting and warm.
An explorer with unfamiliar insights and uncharted anecdotes,
a composer of ballads, an inventor of art and poetry,
humbly eliciting beauty,
modestly emanating ingenuity.
A relic, a treasure, a lion tamer, a bee charmer.
A lover of the rarest form.

Not without imperfections, of course,
but who isn’t?

I do not care for furs or silks,
ruby slippers or parlor tricks,
just oil paint and turpentine,
velvet and veins,
our fingers interlaced,
my body folding perfectly into his.

I see his smoky silhouette
spindling from the tip of my cigarette,
He is luminous,
and my eyes light up brilliantly like chandeliers.
He has half-moons under his nails.
He grips my neck,
my cheeks are as red as his lips.

And he thinks I’m beautiful.

the first rule of existentialism.

Just because something exists in your head,
don't mean it's real.
It takes someone else to confirm it's validity.

when will I learn?

I should know better than to do this, but..

I want to give you another last chance.

thankful.

Sartre and Beauvoir concluded
that we as humans only have the capability
to identify that which is absent from our lives
in order to fully recognize and realize
what we ultimately have the capacity to garner and obtain,
that it is impossible to address that which we already have
because its presence is too obvious to notice,
and is inherently digested and archived within.
Despite their extensive
and thorough literature defending this sentiment,
I believe Sartre and Beauvoir got it wrong,
and that it is possible, upon careful inspection,
to still describe that which we do have,
and appreciate what we’ve already acquired.

I am thankful.

“Nothing can beat wasting the day with people who truly care about you, who you don’t have to censor yourself around out of fear of being misconstrued or deconstructed. I can be a strong black woman, I can be gay; I can talk shit and sing my heart out and drink and smoke and act like a fool and feel completely safe. With my friends, I am home.”
-October 13th, 2008

I am thankful for my friends—
my noble and distinguished collection,
my select few, my kindred company, my coven.
I am thankful for our gatherings,
our discourse, our exchanges.
Our dissections and deconstructions,
our arm-chair psychology.
I am thankful for our conversation,
our front porch system, our support system
our cigarette breaks, our binges, benders
and coffee table coalescence.
I am thankful for our conspiring,
our plans, schemes, spells and charms.
I am thankful for their anecdotes,
gossip and ear-candy.
I am thankful for their insights,
and pearls of wisdom.
I am thankful for the sunsets we’ve shared—
the ones we knew were specifically painted for us.
I am thankful for the early morning lessons
in bomb construction.
I am thankful for our plans.
I am thankful for our traditions,
I am thankful for our apocalyptic visions,
and basement bomb shelter blueprints.
I am thankful for winters to hide away from,
I am thankful for pianos,
I am thankful for musical telepathy,
and three chord songs.

I am thankful for the one who broke my heart.
You taught me about resilience, and how to persevere.
You stirred something within me that I didn’t know existed.
You made me feel alive.
And even though you couldn’t requite,
you allowed me to practice sainthood,
you saw the best of me,
a side of myself I had never even seen before.
You were the first person I ever loved,
thank you for letting me.

I am thankful for everyone who ever let me love them,
you showed me that I have the capacity to love
and all the magic and the poetry it entails.

I am thankful for the little bird.
This whole time I’ve been nesting,
I thought I was taking an active role,
by creating a space to meet a lover.
You showed me that I was actually tying myself up,
And passively waiting for someone to rescue me.

And you also give me hope that someone will rescue me.

I am thankful for everything that has transpired,
that I was able to create everything that I have,
learn everything that I know,
and know everyone that I do.

I am thankful for the person I am.

Thank you.

there is no winter and no santa claus, and, yes virginia, that's because..

And all the lights hanging
from the peaks of the houses and the arms of the trees
reminded me of all the years I asked for a lover
for Christmas and never once found a boy
gift-wrapped in reams of tissue paper
and gold ribbon under my tree.
and I wondered if I should even bother asking again
or if Santa Claus was even alive.
I’ve been building nests for years
and I just don’t understand why
no one has come to fill any of them.

Preparing for the End of the World.

“Nobody is steering this ship. We’re all just looking nervously at the approaching iceberg & wondering if we can raid the bar.”

–Amanda Palmer

My aunt and I used to joke about the end of the world the same way dissatisfied and disheartened Americans toss around the idea of moving to Canada after each presidential election: “It’s okay that George Bush won the race, the world is ending in a few years anyway; we only have to muddle through this all just a little bit longer,” we’d tell each other sympathetically, half in jest—but our sentiments were ultimately anchored in unspoken sincerity. The apocalypse has always been a quenching conversational elixir for us. Every holiday, while the rest of the family gossiped around the dinner table, my aunt and I would sneak out to the garage to smoke cigarettes and compare notes on our latest end of the world findings. From the ancient Mayan predictions and Nostradamus’ doomsday prophecies, to the more recent conspiracy theories foretelling catastrophic solar flares and the possibility of the Earth’s poles unexpectedly and violently switching, we happily accepted and swallowed each other’s cataclysmic ear candy, and giddily returned to the dinner table intoxicated by the thought of our own demise. 

I was thrilled to discover that my friends were also enchanted with the idea of the end of the world. One July evening, instead of watching the celebratory lightshow marking the birth of our nation, we drove in the opposite direction, the pyrotechnic stars bursting behind us. All we could see were the flares of the fireworks reflecting off of the clouds, as the sonic booms from the explosions overhead rattled the car. It felt like the city was being bombed. It felt like Armageddon, and we were enthralled. We sped home and spent the remainder of the evening drafting blueprints for a doomsday bunker and planning and preparing for the end of the world. 

In many regards, entertaining the thought of the possible end of days was comforting for us. Knowing that the fate of the world is completely out of your control, it’s a relief, really. As the sky comes crashing down, you don’t have to worry about that painting you never finished. You don’t have to worry about remembering birthdays, or running red lights or taking your vitamins, or making sure your hair doesn’t look too stupid, or finding a practical job, or paying the rent on time. You don’t have to worry about keeping track of the pain of the surrounding villages, or your carbon footprint, or the hereditary diseases slinking through your DNA, or finding love. The only thing you have to concern yourself with is staying alive. 

But for my friends and my aunt and I, our survival was not a priority, or even on our agenda. Despite our young ages, we had grown disillusioned with life. We had become all too accustomed to its irritability, inconsistency and its transience. For years, we had fought to maintain a sense of stability, trying in vain to come to terms with each situation, make the best of it, consolidate, and actively engage in it, secretly hoping, that maybe this time, we could somehow magically sway the results in our favor. But we had learned that no amount of manipulation could prevent the world from turning, no amount of nitpicking could prevent the sky from falling, and no amount of manhandling could prevent a house in Kansas from being uprooted in a tornado and crashing down on us, again. And again. Despite our efforts, our loved ones died—a brother, a father, a mother—as did Santa Claus and fairy tale endings. Our hearts broke, as did our wills, as we had been in mourning for years too long. We had exhausted the cards that we had been dealt, and it’s not that we wanted new hands, we just wanted the game to be over. 

So when the skies suddenly blackened, and the television channels stopped transmitting and went off the air, and the colored emergency test patterns filled the screens, we knew it was our time, and we welcomed the end of the world with open arms. 

And we were more than prepared. As believers flocked to holy sanctuaries and shrines, and the politicians and scientists fled underground, we gathered our treasures, boarded up the windows, broke out the booze and bunkered down in our designated basement shelter. We had packed practical provisions of painkillers and champagne, cigarettes and chocolate cake. For once, we would call the shots, as they would be our parting shots, and our last. 

But as the hours passed, our excitement and anticipation waned. And the realities of our predicament began to sink in. As we sat, I wondered why any of us were even there. Too often we had confessed to secretly hoping cars would hit us as we crossed the street, or that satellites would come crashing down out of the sky and impale us. If we so desperately wanted to die, why hadn’t we killed ourselves already? If we so desperately wanted to die, why hadn’t we overdosed on all the drugs we attempted to numb ourselves with? If we so desperately wanted to die, why were we huddling in a basement bomb shelter, hiding from the one thing we truly craved, our deaths? All of my research proved that we weren’t meant to survive in troubled times, and yet we had survived a lifetime on this planet. We had always complained about having to dig ourselves out of winter each year, and yet, we shoveled out regardless. 

I thought about all sunsets I knew were painted specifically for me. I thought about all the times I tried to love and failed, and knew I wanted to try again. I thought about all the times I wanted to die and suddenly knew I was not ready. 

I poured myself some champagne and raised my glass: “Here’s to the end of the world, and here’s living despite the end. Here’s to our resilience and to our survival. Here’s to regaining our footing, despite quaked foundations, and here’s to dodging houses fall from the sky. Here’s to not jumping ship when things get too hard, and here’s to our capacity to persevere. Let us ride out this storm so that we can continue to live out the great human struggle with grace and ingenuity.”