I won’t save you, and I’ve lost myself. I draw attention to my own ticks over the weekend swirling my bottom teeth with the tip of my tongue and slamming back beer incessantly posting shitty pictures along with poetry. Trying to capture what it feels like to have folks say they missed me so much—and to ask me to stay.
My sick motivation to write is to be noticed when I can’t go out into the world. Even tonight, at writing group, I felt my eyebrows furrow parking close to a bush in the parking lot–too many cars. I want so bad to hide away but to still be seen.
Let my writing be greater than I am in real life. Crying, brooding, salty. I have no sword or staff, no moral superiority. Right now, I’m a bit of a neurotic. The feel of my bra against my skin is awful. I’ve hero’d my way through my own life so many times that I’ve run out of characters to play.
My niece scoots up to sit behind me on the couch and grips my arms to press my middle back into her tiny frame. In the pressing she finds comfort, waddles off to return with a plaid wool blanket so I can wrap her up like a tiny burrito. More and more blankets appear and she winds up a pile in my lap crushing against my knees and thighs.
I become a rocking chair always back and forth rocking myself into my own mother’s sweetness and breath in an extended hug. My own blood strong with genes bearing pronounced cheeks. Teeth floating in a pink case tasting of mint and nostalgia as I plop them in my mouth to skip to the living room and grin at niece and sister.
I walk into mom’s bedroom to smell her perfume and take so much comfort in the body shape of both her and my sister. Loving gaze. The bodies of our tribe. Family my own complexity of the hero and anti-hero, thesis and antithesis of a human tree. Family the underbelly of why I write. All their fault and not their fault at all.
My stomach screams at me in anxiety to go vomit. My fists demand that I slam them into a ripe pillow case crumpled by last nights sweat-sleep. I write because I cannot connect. I write because I am selfish. I write to trick myself into thinking I am good at something, and to find sick pleasure in my own voice-in-writing. The anti-hero of okay. The death of an anti-warrior with no corpse.
“Your soul is a dark forest. But the trees are of a particular species, they are genealogical trees.”