nomorefunerals

[nomorefunerals]

I was told I needed to face my past, and I am, I am, I am looking into the winding long hallways of all those years, the dark of it a snowy midnight, flecks of light in inky blackness; but I'm leaping through the days, now reflecting infinitely. a room of mirrors shatters my face into millions of different angles, I can't see them all at once. I was told, a long time ago, that jumpers stare at the sky when they fall. they don't want to die-- they're sick and, scared, and, afraid to see the ground, the river, the ocean, the end. but I see it in the peripheral it's passing by in smudges, blurs, claps to the shoulders, brushing against my hand, photographic ghosts. nothing's clear enough to know until it's just out of reach. I can't remember faces, they are always leaving; only their backs, their hair. they are always standing still and I am always falling away. and so, the moment is gone before I could touch it, hold onto it. the moment is gone before I was there to know how to keep it. I've come late to every party the confetti blanketing the floor. all mirror balls, discarded cups, and silence, I bury myself there, and declare my time of death. find me in the spring I know from my childhood. dig me out of this rot. it was cool and bright; I had so much to look forward to, and nothing, looking back.

[nomorefunerals]

wanting to post more but the formatting on mobile sucks and I'm not frequently at my computer these days. deflates into a miserable pile of goo

[nomorefunerals]

"The therapist hands me a list I'm supposed to read out the first words I see rescue. cradle. boxes. bear-trap. and she asks me what they mean and you talked to me. do you remember? before it all went to hell and back, with those sad eyes and sad stories I was scared of so much but you were there. did you ask? no, offered, couldn't miss this chance; It's the inkblots next, i list out images, no time to explain; humans. hide. animal. worm. A metronome swings slightly faster than the clock I can't count the difference and think at the same time but at the same time, I thought of self defense classes. avoid the dark. avoid the obvious; what's obvious to prey? scream fire. scream quietly. twist the arm. pry back the fingers. no one is ever going to save you but we will save you a seat in the waiting room, then, the first time i danced, the first time you took my hands from me; The therapist switched the sheets. Your eyes look into mine. What have you done to me, love? ice-pick. hammer. point. pinch. What have I done? I cannot hold anyone less than a knife."

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pretend I reblogged that to the right place

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"you're so delulu" "#schizoposting" "narc abuse" "the intrusive thoughts won" "microdosing on delusion" "when the voices tell me to" "she's definitely dissociating" oh my god please shut up please shut the fuck up

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Absolutely insane lines to just drop in the middle of an academic text btw. Feeling so normal about this.

[ A Critical History of English Literature, Vol. 1, Prof. David Daiches, first published in 1960 ]

[nomorefunerals]

The shrink asked about us. That's how long it's been since I talked about it, I guess I felt a little proud, y'know? like-- I had done something powerful; I had forgotten, at least a little. I could pretend, at least a little, that things were normal, and y'know, maybe I was fine? And I am fine, obviously, the marching order of orange medicine bottles patrolling my nightstand notwithstanding. I can hold down a job. I can have some hobbies. It's enough, I think-- The pain has lessened, it's not growing anymore. maybe? It won't kill me, I think, to move on from some things. I don't know if I'll move on from this, since, well-- you're still here, and it's a little hard when we exchange phone calls and you tell me stories, sometimes, ones I don't remember. Little quirks, small time woes, about growing up. I abstain; you don't want to remember. It's understandable. I don't want to remember my failures, either. It's been awful carrying it, worse still to pretend it isn't there. Scalpel, napkins, peroxide. I lay on the kitchen table; it's just like that board game we threw out, the one you hated. We never could have a bonding moment without at least one argument. My hands shake too much to do it proper, of course, and The noise is unbearable, the mess is unavoidable, though, eventually, I'll excise the resentment, untangle it from the grief, bury it out back with hatchets and time capsules and my childhood dog, and wonder what will I do when it's time to bury you?

[nomorefunerals]

It's summer. Cicadas buzz in time with the AC, a low deafening hum, cutting through all this heat. I pass by a fogged up window, looking through a crack in the blinds. Stars bruise the sky. The day is nearly over. The face of the sun has turned, walking away, almost gone. Late evening has come to greet me; the smells of childhood filtering in through all this past on thin shafts of light. 8:04 pm. The room looks like a photograph damaged by time and distance; my father's bed the windowsill air streaked with dust carpet stained with gold; I know I don't miss home. only thinking I have one.

[nomorefunerals]

if they cut me open, what scars would they see buried in the red? as though they could map out your conquest. as though I can classify each blister and bruise, same as finches. they've changed, I've changed, but look at me— here, is where you have been. here, is what I have done to escape. here, is how these become tangled, less roots and more rabbit and snare. I have gnawed off less to escape from this. I have devoured more of me than you could ever touch. but, knife marks or teeth marks or the burn of your hands— it makes little difference. All I'm left begging for is a witness beyond two eyes and four walls.

[nomorefunerals]

There's a grief in my belly-- beneath the gut, actually, low and tense, where a child could've been if I had ever been a child and the size of a clementine, it's big enough to be a cause of concern, I mean, it's even the same size as my mother's and my grandmother's and those things killed them, I mean, not literally in one case but you could call it hereditary, if it brings you comfort to know that this was an inevitability? cysts, fibroid tumors, ovarian failure, you can't get a hysterectomy because, well, you don't have insurance that will cover it, and you're still of childbearing age and it's funny. they only say that because they don't know that the orange is a grapefruit now, and I can't eat those, I'm on antidepressants, I keep trying to shed the pain, the shame. like deer velvet, each spring I am a different person, each winter I am unchanged; a child begging for southern comfort but, I mean, who can really say if it's unfair? No amount of pecan pie and family history could've prevented this; Why are you crying? What is it now? Does it hurt? On a scale of 1 to 10 show me where it hurts and I'll give you something to cry about.

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"There's an echo when I speak now. Something in my voice rattles a little louder than before. The air is thinner, I think, maybe that's it. It makes silence ring in my ears. I check my phone. The rooms feel emptier. My footsteps are heavier. I think about the space all around me. There aren't any new messages. I'm in line at the DMV, the doctor, the movie theatre. I sit at the park, at the cafe, at home. There's no one else. I check my phone again. They'll have to replace it soon, and your contact will be gone from it. Your number will belong to someone else. It probably does already, I don't know. I don't call or text anymore. I go to the store like we used to. I forget a little. I look up and see the air thinning near the bagels and the peaches and the ibuprofen. The doctor says it's normal to feel someone's presence after they're gone. I nod, because I don't feel like arguing with people who don't understand. I get a shovel key-chain afterwards. It's a pocket knife, a bottle opener, a joke between you and I. I'd dig up your coffin and take it home if that meant you were here.

Miss you. I wish you would haunt me."

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ah man. i was totally gonna post on this blog more but then immediately got hit with a depression. so expect the next few posts to not be in an image format, sry

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oh man. just now noticing all the errors in my original post. well. the face of imperfection mirrors us perfectly ig

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first poem of the blog!

[Transcript within image description]