And in the painting or coloring book, they will be green. Long after I die from jumping into traffic or accidentally poisoning myself or just getting sick and turning off. It'll be green: the crayon kids color my eyes with. Black-thoughted little thing, you knotted rope. Any muscle gets bigger if you use it.
And what can you do for this? The horrible suspicion that the thing that hurts is real. Who can confirm for you that it's really happening? Can anybody hear me? I want to type the word "BODY" but I type it as "BOY" and if any "BOY" could hear me things would be different.
How much of your happiness, like what percent, hinges on other people? I'm not a liar, I'll tell you that in no small way I see clouds part and darken the evening sky depending on how sick you get and how lonely I happen to feel. The distinct pleasure of being recognized is a small step away from being followed down the street. I want to expand, breathe deeper and test my capacity for sweetness. I want to practice patience and loving kindness for everyone, especially my enemies. But when the phone rings all the time and not for me, it's hard. With weekends of chaste sleepovers, it gets tricky to be nice. How can I increase my potential for peace at time likes this? Strangers and their strange lovers, they draw maps of affection and tame beasts of lust and You Stay Home. How can I put my compassionate energy out into the world? I eat ativan to numb myself, read postmodernist theory to make it hurt a tiny, little bit less. When the computer and television and every machine in the room, wants to moan you into me. Here is what they are singing: you lose. You loser. You ache-void. What kind of mess are you building for yourself? What do you deserve to feel?
Dear World, I want to love you and I want to feel safe in your arms, wish you well and know that in doing so you'll take care of me.
But today my heart is just not big enough.