i wrote the poem that is THE poem (Patreon)

August 10th 2022

I feel drunk from the coffee.

the caffeine.

we sit across from each other,

room full of backpacks and suitcases.

croissant on each of our plates.

the butter and honey in the middle.

a cup of coffee for us both.

I drip some honey in my mug before spreading some on top of butter that’s on top of my croissant.

little regrets come floating in and out of my head.

“why did you send that message. Not everything needs to be said.”

“it was too mean, even though you weren’t trying to be, you were.”

I rip off another piece of croissant and cut off a beautiful size piece of butter.

more butter than croissant.

I put it on my tongue, into my mouth.

He looks at the photos I’ve brought with me.

I wish I brought more.

when I get home, I’ll be arriving home to stacks of photos and I’ll dedicate an evening that week to laying them out and trying to form a book with photos and words.

I cut some more butter. Layer a beautiful bite of flaky croissant, slippery thick butter and golden honey.

I think about my weight and wonder if I have gained weight because of how much butter and croissant I have been eating at the lane.

I try to get rid of that thought, or I try to think “it doesn’t matter.”

I question if I have an eating disorder for half a second.

then focus back on him looking through my photos.

I see him get to the photo of the honey and flowers.

I want to buy flowers today before going to Chantels.

I want to make that photo I have in my head of my vulva and flowers.

petals petals petals.

draping draping draping.

beauty beauty beauty.

abused abused abused.

mother, daughter, Holy Spirit.

I want to make that photo so bad. I want it to be exactly how I see it in my head. It will be a hard one to make as a self portrait but I feel determined. I wonder if chantel would want to help. Maybe she could take the photo? Maybe I will suggest it to her.

drunk drunk drunk

except I’m not.

just dizzy dizzy dizzy.

I need to find something to charge my computer. An adapter, converter. But I can’t just go looking through his things.

every turn of my head makes me feel like I am slipping away.

drug after drug after drug.

I take a break from typing and I sit still with my journal.

and then…

I write the poem that

IS

THE

poem.

I write the verse that is the verse.

maybe what this entire trip was for.

maybe why the urge came.

it was the poem.

the poem needed to be birthed and she knew how she needed to be birthed,

she knew what wold let it come out of me,

she knew the desires that needed to be met for me,

she knew the pain I needed to go through,

she knew the people I needed to meet,

and all I knew was that she needed me to go.

I knew she needed me to leave.

person after person, lover after lover, fear after fear, word after word, she was being born.

I feel the urge to cry.

I know I must.

I go sit on the toilet to pee,

and I notice all the flowers on the wall in front of me.

I reach my hands out and hold onto them.

I want to apologize.

have I been so wrong to you.

have I abused you so much?

and yet,

my desire for them

makes me think,

I’ll never stop.

I’ll never stop taking.

but how could I not?

for my own use.

for my own wishes,

for my own feeling better.

“so beautiful” I think.

I need beauty to take me away from my pain.

is that also what it is for men?

they need beauty to take them away from their pain.

and so they treat me the way I treat the flowers.

I enter them and lay on them and pluck them without their permission,

I do this all and I rarely even think that it isn’t what they want.

I am thinking only of myself.

oh for fucks sake!

it pains me the way I keep finding ways to see the way the people have hurt me might be seeing.

to gain empathy for them

I don’t want it.

I don’t want to feel an understanding.

I want to feel anger.

I want to feel justified in my hatred for them.

but I don’t anymore.

I feel no justice in hating them.

I feel a love,

a care,

I feel a loneliness with them.

I want to hug and hold them all.

I want to love them in a way that is fucking,

even though the last thing I want is fucking.

I want to kiss their cheeks and let their tears flow down my back and into my ass crack.

I want to let them all know how loved they are.

how I understand.

I understand the need to take.

when we are in so much pain how is it possible to do the opposite?

how is it possible to give?

how is it possible to receive love that is freely given even?

I want to take every human into the soft palm of my hands and tell them

they are beautiful, THEY are beautiful.

they are the beauty they so desperately need.

I am the beauty I so desperately need.

home with the flowers.

but even more so,

home within myself.