plutôt

and i wake up - determined as ever to run away.
i am applying for research assistant positions in ethiopia and libera, a teaching job in micronesia.
i am going to rip out of my own skin.
i don't know what the fuck else i'm supposed to be doing.

keeping myself up, hyperventilating about
the current exchange rate,
chinese-owned debt,
and my very own long-distance relationship.

i oscillate too much to have a clear reading on who i am and how i'm doing.
the fluctuation is better than the long, silent lows
but what i would give to be calm,
resigned,
hopeless
just to have something constant again.

oh my god -
oh you think i'm in control.
oh my god -
oh, you think it's all for fun.
is this fun for you?!

barely breathing, under wool blankets in chicago, il
and even though i'm home, i still want to go home.
i always want to be some place else.
i can't breathe.

our relationship is going to end, probably within the year, and i am going to burn alive.
i know it, i know it, i know it.
i love him, but from here, from far, from six-weeks-until-i-see-you far, from you-can't-manage-your-time-so-i-don't-see-you far, from i'm-not-even-sure-you-miss-me far, well.
well.

i am so fucking, fucking fucking f u c k i n g lovesick, though.
it is puppy love; i am consumed.
so.
you know.
what the fuck am i going to even do.

(a: drink until i make better mistakes)

all i want to do right now is scream, DON'T LEAVE ME. i know your bus ticket is at 7:30, and i know you have class, and i know, i know, i know, but what am i supposed to be without you here?

capital m

The unemployment rate for young Americans has exploded to 52.2 percent -- a post-World War II high, according to the Labor Dept. -- meaning millions of Americans are staring at the likelihood that their lifetime earning potential will be diminished and, combined with the predicted slow economic recovery, their transition into productive members of society could be put on hold for an extended period of time.

I have been crying for several hours.

M-M-M-MELTDOWN

Things I like to do after a 14-hour day:
-Lay on the couch
-Drink beer
-Read poetry

I don't have many words anymore, but I figured I'd give a shout-out after a month of radio silence.
Watch this space, outer space, any space for once I find words and a chance to breathe.
Things range from heart-wrenching in the third degree (twice removed) to just plain good.

Oh rainy-eyed girl with wine-stained mouth:
you are best at being sad.
But somewhere between
Salaam Bombay, late night frozen yogurt,
mixed drinks and French novellas,
remember:
familiarity is never an excuse, and
it's okay to allow happiness.

I have a history of sleep deprivation: depression won't let me sleep; mania keeps me awake.
When I was younger, I thought my eyes were bleeding when I was so tired and propped up my eyelids with fear.
It felt like my eyes were bleeding.
Come to find out they are only dry. I thought they were bleeding; I thought there was something really wrong.
Anyhow: that is how they are now - dry with imagined blood.




I panic.

(day from hell at work. absolute social weariness when all of a sudden i collapse and realize that i don't know how to have a summer where i am not sinful&sorrowful i fly unto you, o virgin of virgins, my mother. To thee I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. always sinful and sorrowful: katherine elizabeth marie, oh yes, you are.)

Why do I turn a heart breaking into violent words against myself?





I am gasping for air most of the day.

Ampersand hearts semicolon
And hearts;
♥

I am going to explode violently. I am going to take people with me and we will fuck you up, oh yes, we will fight your parents and eat your bread. I am going to trace the yellow lines we think protect us and crash your party and give us whip-lash in our last three two one seconds. I am beyond any cop car that could pull me back and ticket me for my speed of thought. O! sound of mania, O! dysphoria, O! for only that one chance I could have had to let it all out before we machine gun out one-two-three like bullets. We will fuck you up, all of you.

I am going to set things on fire and let the night know I cannot take anymore. I will burn the cicada carcasses that dive-bomb from our trees with red eyes and unexpected weight. I will hang my head low, I will guillotine myself, I will make it all stop start and everything ever. I am going to scream you will hear me you will all hear me. Someone has to because no one believes I am screaming.

A Catholic Girlhood

Oh child —
sing a song of sixpence, of sadness, of soft pillows underneath the dead.
It is not the soldiers who will hear you; it is only the
omnipotent one-two-three, the hostage holders who
chain your thoughts to an everlasting chamber
where across the screen, judge-not-lest-ye-be-judged hears and
he, always he and He and He and He, prescribes you,
ever-penitent patient, a fitting Rx:
bis in die; pro re nata; tabella;
one for each sin, please: quantify and nullify.

Oh exploitable —
depending on this disk and sip for salvation, you are
young and inexperienced and this age of reason leaves you lacking.
These colonels, generals, sergeants: all cannot compensate for this
lack of experience and lack of exposure to a world you cannot see yet.
If only:they'd let you know that He does not always say things right.
If only:reality had shone through stained-glass-Virgin into pristine pewéd grotto.
If only:they had said that even Noah, smiling bearded Noah of boat and pairs, was a tale of Paul Bunyan and Zeus like the others.
Then maybe you would have waited,
saving time before Saving souls
and considering
that maybe you don't need Saving.

Oh, exploitable.

I sleep with a bottle of whiskey under my pillow in hopes of dreaming of hope.  Whiskey makes me a happy, loose drunk, with smiles and confidence and secrets and collaborations.

I cannot bear to sleep.  There is so much to do, so much I want to do, that I cannot bear to give in.  Yet during the day, when I am at my least productive, I am restricted from sleep.

Do you understand?  Do you see:
I hope and I want and I try.
I am a combination of failures and dreams, of wishes and breakages.
I can calculate math, read your face, and subsidize and seperate.
I do not know anything.

I cannot believe this is who I am.