Here's Your Shirt Back, Jonathan

Someday, Jonathan,
you will say the nicest things about me.
It is then I will cut my lips
on the chipped coffee mug
I stole from your kitchen sink to remember you.
I will throw it away, relieved.

We ate lunch in the grass,
like other people who eat lunch
in the grass, and I sat with my humor spread out
like a blanket but you only laughed twice,
which is not really enough to say "I love you"
or even, "You might be alright".

As for me, I love you with the power
of a hundred dead horses, covered in flies
which is to say, I am never quite sure
if I love you at all, but lord knows, I try.

One day, Jonathan, I will be gone
and it will mean as much to you
as a penny missing from your pocket,
which is not at all.

Some other day, you will realize
they don't make pennies with real copper anymore.
You will turn your pockets inside-out with regret.
We both know this isn't true

because you lost your heart in the wash
and though we spent months looking for it
under your clothes we only managed
to pick out pieces from the lint in your pockets.

I don't mean all of this as a threat Jonathan.
Perhaps if you unfold it carefully
you will find an apology
hiding in the creases
and your heart rolled up
in the sleeve.

Phantasm

Today I stayed in bed
forever, trying to dream up
trying to dream, up
and woke up to my body
splayed against the carpet.

I dreamt I woke up
to the comforting contours
of your shoulder blades
but when I actually awoke
you were sleeping
in another city,
shoulder blades pressed against the wall.

I added this to my list of disappointments
written on my bed sheets
which I count every night
to help me fall asleep
or to help keep me
from falling asleep,
it's hard to say which.

Last night I dreamt
my brother had died
and I woke up,
my pillow wet
with self-pity.
I don't think
this is what they mean
when they say
"wet dreams"
but this
is what I know.

This all feels so beneath me
like my bed.
Always under my wiry frame
and no matter
how many times I try
kicking off the blankets
and skulking towards the door
I always find myself here
trying to dream myself
out of bed.

------

"sweet mother I cannot work the loom
I am broken with longing for a boy by slender Aphrodite"
-Sappho


my skin,
smooth as
a worry stone
is not
enough

This is probably as good as a diary at this point, since I've been writing in my tumblr. I wrote letters. Lots of them. To everyone. They were too honest. But I'm here and they aren't and there is nothing I can do but be here. (I only wish that was really my attitude).

How many times have I talked about rabble rousing and my overwhelming desire to be a part of something big and important, how many documentaries have I watched on Vietnam protests in mad-city, asked "uncle" Paul and Phil about their rabble rousing days. I know, I know, Kenya is cool and important bla bla bla. I am too tired and discouraged. I am too nervous about leaving for my internship. I used to be good at writing about things.

Maybe later.

Packing packing packing, which accidentally caused me to simultaneously pack up my feelings, which caused me to be a brat for the last week, and which is causing me a little bit of much needed grief today. I hear that people in Kenya are honest, or at least lack the same sort of "tact" we have in America. Tact is such bullshit. It's like throwing someone off a building and providing a car pillow to catch the fall. I mean, if we're going to give a dramatic metaphor, that is what it is like.

I think that people really do want to believe what they are saying or really want it to be true. But that doesn't make it better. It mostly makes it worst. It's becoming increasingly apparent that people's words don't match their actions, and in general, it is testing my patience and making me frustrated. I am exhausted from weeding through what everyone says, trying to figure out which bits were true and which things were said to just make them feel a little less guilty. "You, like your mother, put undo burden on people who talk too much to remember what they've said." I guess I put too much weight on everything people say to me, which is just not how we do things around here. I spend too much time worrying about being sure I articulate everything appropriately, I am always so fucking worried about meaning what I say that half the time I don't say anything at all. And I always make the mistake of thinking that everyone thinks the same way I do, and then I get angry at them for not doing so. I feel so desperately the need to call everyone on their bullshit, or to get out of here and since I lack the nerve and because it is considered generally impolite and because half of the things I want to call people on are long since passed and I would likely be accused of "dwelling". So instead, I'm getting the fuck out of here for a while. Which is, of course, not to say that I won't miss it, as I am sure you all know by now due to the thousands of times I have panicked/written about panicking about missing everything. But sayonara dudes, I've got to get out of here, I'm losing my grip.

I'll write you letters, they will probably be too honest, but I'll be too far away to be properly worried about your reactions, which will probably not be as dramatic as I picture them in my head.

WELCOME TO EARTH, ASSHOLES. IT'S SPOOKY AND FUN.


I refuse to be scared of my own feelings, and I definitely refuse to sacrifice the many possibilities for the sake of self-preservation.
It's just life, baby, it ain't THAT scary.

true lyfe terror, I wish someone could just pack everything I needed for me, I wish I was already there. Too freaked out to think about how freaked out I am, so I am just going to go eat some snacks and go to bed and try to do some more packing tomorrow.

HOLY SHIT