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i'm addicted

I must have an addictive personality...actually, that's not that shocking. addictive in some ways at least. but i am currently ADDICTED, like can't stay away, I go through withdrawals, addicted to libraries and books. I'm reading 6 or 7 books right now. A psych book (about psychotic writers,) an analysis of sylvia plath's writing, ariel, birthday letters, an anne sexton biography, a sylvia plath biography, and an analysis/interviews w/ anne sexton. damn! but i love it. i feel so intellectually stimulated. i've read a shit load of books this year already, and it's only 1/4th the way through! i've been in a decent, if not somewhat manic/anxious, mood lately, so I feel very unjustified in seeking medication for a mood disorder that has mysteriously receded. it's probably just a random up-point or something, it wouldn't make sense for a year and 8 month bout of depression to just randomly dissolve. but i still feel kind of stupid for going to a psychiatrist now, because what if i get prescribed something and then i don't even need it? I don't know, I have such a problem with always having to feel justified. I wrote a poem today that I really like. I'm sure it needs editing, but all writing does.


In life
In legacy
In literature,
I want it all,
packed like rice in a
cube, dice with grey pupils,
rolling on a heavy corner to
swing fate my way.
for once.

Wave after wave of you
crushes my double-edged head
beneath inky water and
I drown, swallowing
you whole like a bullet
of lead in sickening death
intestines, tubing like
your flagging brain.

I see more of myself
in you than in a window's
reflection, a blurry shadow
nailed to the sole's of
your feet, a bitter obsession
spurring you into a run;
a gazelle with the cheetah's
teeth embedded in its rump,
such a part of it that it tastes
the flesh of its young with vigor.

And there's only so much
you can offer, what with
dead wings rubber-banded to
your body, a dove too black
to be a beautiful caged thing.
I lick my palms, slick back
my hair, with no chance of
winning over your four
pieced heart, cut in triangles
like the sandwiches I would
serve you. But love me.

Because I love you. I,
I am what you would have
wanted me to be, had
you had the soul left
enough to share with
me past your ineluctable life.
You, kneeled on linoleum;
you, choking on what dinner
you made yourself, a
last supper flicked with
gritty iron, lying heavy
in your stomach.
It's a pit. A cherry
pit. Breeding and rotting
now, now in my stomach,
infesting me with you.

Piece me back together,
connect me with knotted strings
like the two peach-faced dreams
that jangle like keys in your
pocket. Ugly, dark breathing
ones with unrefutable love,
bows and sequins stuck
with glue holding past to the
pads of their thumbs.
I love you like you loved
them, and despise you
like you spit on them.
Cold witch, with solid fingers
in trembling hands, you
kiss at my life with a
wicked yellow grin and I
kiss back with mine,
red-lips.
Then I poke you.
You dust.
And you are gone.


i think i might start making my journal a "friends only" thing, because there are too many assholes reading it, and it's easier to ignore them if they have nothing to comment on. their stupidity frustrates me, but I don't bother to respond because they're so convinced that they're right that I figure, why shatter their fragile glass world? it reflects images of themselves and their egos grow to mass proportions. good for them. if i were a nazi, i'd burn the assholes. luckily i'm just a wannabe-poet.