#1973

I want to love you
but you make it so hard
we fight over everything
and you cry so fucking much
can you please get a hold of yourself?

I want to love you
but you make it so hard
you’re cold and breakable as porcelain
and anxiety riddles you like hairline fractures
do you even have a backbone?

I want to love you
but you make it so hard
you can’t do anything totally right
and mostly you just fuck things up
would it kill you to accomplish something?

I want to love you
but you make it so hard
you are flawed through and through
and have been from the start
must you always disappoint me?

I want to love you
but you make it so hard
I’m tired of giving excuses for you
and accommodating your whims
don’t you think you owe me by now?

I want to love you
but you make it so fucking hard
I want to find freedom in acceptance
and yet I slip back twice for every inch I gain
are you as tired as I am?

#1972

There’s this idea that if you fall in love with a crazy person, your love can save them – that, given time and patience and devotion, you can fix their madness, you can make them “whole”. It’s a load of shit. Madness can’t be fixed; it can only be suppressed, and will always come creeping, seeping, bleeding back. So why try? Why not accept the madness for what it is and wait for the morning you wake with your lover’s knife in your throat? At least there’s honesty in that. Believe me, the crazy ones know they can’t be fixed. It’s cruel to force them to go along with the charade when you both know you’ll end up at the same tragic conclusion anyway. Blood and broken glass are enough to bear; spare yourselves the disappointment, at least.

#1953

“This Is Your Brain On Anxiety”

frozen like a rabbit
under the shadow of a hawk
I’m paralyzed at my desk
what did she mean by ‘incident’?
why can’t I email [REDACTED]?
am I about to be demoted?
am I about to be fired?
okay
okay
okay just
breathebreathebreathe
no, b r e a t h e
do something
answer an email– no!
what if I’m about to be fired?
why didn’t they clean my cubicle out on Friday?
why didn’t she put anything on my calendar?
what does this have to do with [REDACTED]?
is this a dream? I think this is a dream
wake up wake up wake up
come on come on come on
okay, not a dream
um
um
okay
wait – this wasn’t about me at all?

#1912

I don’t try to get published. I know it would be useless – we aren’t publishable. No one would pay for the scripture of dead gods, or the hymns of phantoms, or the gospel of the insane. No one would read the poetry of a madwoman, would it cost them even a nickel. You have too few beginnings for biography and too many endings for non-fiction. I dedicate too many words to the sound of blood in your lungs for either horror or erotica; they will say it makes readers uncomfortable. We’re just not presentable and I can’t make us so, not when it’s blasphemy to edit or omit. I could not tell lies for money. I could not cut chunks of flesh from my side to earn their weight in coin. If they never believed Cassandra, why should they believe me? Publishers aren’t interested in crazy unless it’s marketable.