Sometimes I text my friends I’m crying
and they reply lol.
It’s not their fault. My lack
of tact and legibility is divined.
On Wednesday I resolve to be friendlier
with myself, more encouraging.
Thursday I call myself a stupid cunt before breakfast.
It’s almost funny how much
I’m actually crying. It’s kind of funny
how I know exactly what Gordon Ramsay is like when
his kids don’t clean their rooms, but I don’t know my neighbor’s
last name. I don’t know any attorney generals offhand.
I almost never know my login on the first try.
I don’t know if I’m taking the right medicine
for the right disorder. I don’t know if I’m being
who I really am
from day to day
if the priority should be
me or all of us and what
if any distinction there is and why.
I’m either asking or answering the wrong question here.
I like how the dog knows when I’m about to cry.
I like how the record player never asks me to log in.
Sitting at the typewriter there is no notification.
No one is laughing at me but myself.
It gets old, but I get used to it.
I get older and more used to it.
I am hanging in there, I keep saying, clearly
meaning something different
than what we all have decided those words mean
or more precisely what they demand.
Society and community and that stuff.
Whatever instructs me to say “Don’t worry about me.”
It’s nobody’s fault,
but today the last line of my horoscope was
“there is no such thing as a soul,” so
maybe horoscopes have gotten out of hand.
I wonder if I could heal
my own energy eventually, for free.
I just need to be reminded
which moon makes me bleed
and which moon
makes me want to. Let me
preface this and
everything after: I’m not joking.
There is no such thing as my soul.
Remember when Heidegger said, “All distances
in time and space are shrinking”?
I know, right. I could be drowning, and
all my friends would be laughing
at my impression of me drowning, like oh yeah
You would totally drown that way
like with your face just like that