deconstruction, a careful dismantlement of any hope at happiness, piece by piece. infidelity. the stark white shock of it, like bone. the— this is it, the— nothing left. there’s nothing else so permanent, irreparable. yet— you carry it, grace, in bright red blood mouthfuls. you drag yourself through the mud, with it slung across your shoulders, for years. the flowers are long-dead. it always smells like death here.
my first memory is a birthday party. we lived in my uncle’s house across from the church on father hayes drive. i was three or four. mom told me to make a wish before i blew out the candles. i closed my eyes, “i wish for a kitten or a puppy.” when i was a little bit older mom taught me to wish on stars. star light, star bright, first star i see tonight, i wish i may, i wish i might, have the wish i wish tonight. my wish has been the same since i was ten years old. i don’t repeat it because i’m superstitious about sharing wishes. suffice to say it’s completely selfless. after my tenth birthday, i never made another wish for myself. later, a few weeks after i turned sixteen, i sat outside of a trailer in a driveway. it was the hottest night i can remember the kind when you sweat sitting still. i’d just been raped. i looked up at the sky and talked to the stars but i didn’t make any wishes.
“I think there’s a kind of desperate hope built into poetry that one really wants, hopelessly, to save the world. One is trying to say everything that can be said for the things that one loves while there’s still time.”—
“You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice & know what will happen next & you stop & try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, & may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, & at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through…”—Ernest Hemingway (via galadarling)