I’m not sorry about the toast.
I’m not sorry about the wedding.
I’m not sorry about the fake priest.
I’m not sorry about switching the donors.
I’m not sorry about Ramon.
I’m not sorry about Kevin.
I’m not sorry about Carl.
I’m not sorry about Butch.
I’m not sorry about Celissa, Marissa, Narcissa, Clarissa, or the rest of the elderly choir.
I’m not sorry about calling you Uncle.
I’m not sorry about calling Uncle you.
I’m not sorry about making you do it at the same time.
I’m not sorry about shooting you.
I’m not sorry about shooting you again.
Sorry, not sorry
Posted in Fiction, Word Spasm
Tagged 100 words, apologies, apology, comedy, I'm sorry, silly, warren ellis, writing
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Was there a thought about
I must be wrong
let me take a poll
let me check the facts
let me understand
let me clear my throat
let me figure this out
let me understand
let me
let me
Posted in Poetry
Tagged depression, mental illness, poem, poems, poetry, self hate, spiral, writing
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And then everyone else came in
You’ll never get better
or figure it out later, they said.
I’m just so lonely, she said.
I just want to be
understood, she said.
He stares over my shoulder
and he is judging.
He is deciding
what I am worth.
I feel shame
and shame
and shame
and shame.
These are the faces I make
when I am trying to
give up my darkest secrets.
These are the faces I make
when I have checked out.
The urge I have had,
I don’t understand.
This cycle.
I’ll break it.
I’ll fucking show them, she said.
What Have I Gotten Myself Into (This Time)
Blood pounding, spine tingling, heart racing, eye twitching,
don’t run don’t fight don’t panic don’t flee —
deep breath deep breath deep breath deep breath —
it’s only supposed to be fun, after all, don’t you see?
Posted in Poetry
Tagged anxiety, bravery, cowardice, fear, nerves, nervousness, poem, poems, poetry, trial and error, writing
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We who are about to date salute you
I once thought of his commonplace eyes
as extraordinary.
I once thought of his flatlipped mouth
as beyond compare.
I once thought of his useless hands
as masterfully skilled.
We teach ourselves
to lie to ourselves.
We reward outward masking
of inner repulsion,
and we purposefully drink
the bitterest poison,
and tell the world
it is the sweetest thing
to ever grace
our tongues.