My favorite hobby is sleeping in order to avoid responsibilities that I’m pretending don’t exist
when the boys pull your hair and push you to the ground
I promise not to tell you that it’s because they like you.
when the teachers call home to tell me that
you pushed them to the ground in return
I’ll take you out of school early and buy
you your favorite ice cream.
when you get older and the boys
try to touch you when you don’t want to be touched
I’ll look at you like the sun when you come home
with anger in your fists.
they all tell you not to fight fire with fire
but that is only because they are afraid of your flames.
when the boys yell after you like hyenas
you yell back, baby.
I will not teach you to be afraid of your anger
so that you look for it in others.
I will not make you be the better person
because you already are.
you wanna fight ‘em? fight ‘em.
don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.
when the boys try to tell you to soften up
I hope you make them bleed with your edges.
I hope you remember that you are not theirs
that their disappointment in you is not yours.
when the boys come to your door with pretty words and
I hope you show them the anger in yours.
I hope you show them just how strong your mommy
thinks you are.
I hope you show them the animal they can’t always
see in their own reflection.
when the boys come with the intention of hurting you
my advice will always stay the same, my darling:
give ‘em hell.
Kurt Cobain inspired me not to kill myself. I would rather live a miserable life than be worshiped in death as a hero that I am not. I am sick of suicide and depression being romanticized.
You would always whisper,
“God doesn’t need us,” but
your mouth tasted like
holy wine, skin like the
paper-thin wafers they
lay on your tongue at church.
You find divine revelation
at the bottom of whisky bottles,
carry your baby teeth in your pocket
like rosary beads.
Jeremiah told his people
to roll themselves in ashes and
mourn for Nineveh’s demise,
but you are steeped
covered in the soot of
your own decay.
A woman outside the grocery store
hands you a bible and tells you
that Jesus died for our sins;
you flick your cigarette onto
the concrete and say,
“I’m about to die
for my own.”
once wrote, “the world is a
fine place and worth fighting for.”
ernest hemingway put the lip
of a gun to his head,
pressed down on the trigger
and heard the bang of the bullet
going in through his ear,
with manuscripts of love letters
still in his pockets.
what does that say about
what it means to fight?
what does that say about
my “i am fine” sounding like
“i want to learn how best
to fight and i want to learn
wes anderson movies taught me that fucked up horrifying tragic living circumstances are no excuse not to carefully maintain a cute pastoral aesthetic at all times
i’ve spent half my life trying to understand bukowski
so that i could write poetry like he did.
i guess i’ve since realised that
bukowski wrote to make people wish they were bukowski, and that is art in itself:
when words can make you wish you were a worse human being just so that you could be better at your craft!
the very sacrifice of self to another in order to sacrifice yourself again,
to lose yourself in someone who lost themselves at the bottom of a hipflask
and to try to find yourself in a circle of screaming at your loved ones between meals.
the notes of a dirty old man have brought thousands screeching to a halt
to ponder the profundity of bad, bad people,
to glorify the terrible in the world for the rest of their days.
heroes are only human.