oops I did it again

He’s right. I can’t live in a cave. That’s some jacked-up existence.

I did it. This is separation of church and state. Separation of creator and creation.

I’m going to talk about theatre for a bit since it’s been all-consuming, I’ve been ignoring life in general for the sake of this life in the specific, this invented reality that I prefer to anything that was born real, this tangible thing I’ve watered out on my own. I go through the same repeating series of emotions every day, more or less. It’s incredible how closely my mental state has become linked to my actors’ energy in a given moment. It’s incredible how quickly my mental state changes depending on if they do what I want or not. I like the state of complacent peace when everyone leaves and I’m alone with my place of execution, where my thoughts come out in the physical sphere. Last night I quietly paced around when everyone had gone, touched up my guillotine with some more fake blood. It’s strange because whenever anyone so much as says the wrong thing to me, I will start sobbing. I come home and people try to talk to me and I’m in this rage because I am in no mood to argue about the trivial when I have everything under control and I have bigger things going on. Having a substantial amount of power over one thing becomes really frustrating when you realize your power lacks over others. A few days ago I hurled a mug against my bureau and it shattered into pieces I still haven’t fully recovered. I hid them somewhere in my room. I kind of almost expected it to bounce off and stay whole. I forget that things are breakable and that some actions are irreversible. I’m not sad about it, it just kind of made a weird impact.

It’s even stranger to realize that I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. I have no sense of any lost time in my day or any of that. I hate having free time. I don’t want it back. I have no problem indefinitely working and working until I have to sleep and do it again. This is filling me up and I need it. I don’t know what comes next. I feel suspended but I know it is only because I have things to suspend me. I’m not worried. If I worried it would just become a self-fulfilling prophecy like it always does.

There is power in things ending and giving way to other unanticipated things. I need to remember that so I don’t lose this feeling of always being an inch above the ground.

This is the song I’m using for the opening of my play: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Olp10zk3h-Q 

I’ve been talking so much that it’s making it hard for me to write anything, I kind of just want to shut up for a few days and not talk and not write and communicate as little as possible. I feel like a drained battery.

I didn’t know it was so easy to get paper cuts but I keep getting paper cuts all over my hands whenever I reach into my backpack also last night an entire container of glitter spilled in my bag and oh God I’m dying in the best and worst way. Of passion. Of being consumed by something that takes up my every movement and thought and action and reaction.

Have another poem:


Sylvester’s Eve 

they urge me to dance

so i do

the only way i know how:

by myself, half-drunk, full-time sad


the water doesn’t

help, so i spin

and i spin

and i spin

until i cannot hear

my family telling me to stop

until i have never seen

a kaleidoscope pill

or the bathroom floor up close.

until i can’t hear the music;

only my own blood in

my head, boiling.


and all i see,

as i spin,

is not a living room,

not furniture,

not people;

just christmas lights and

wondrous colors that glow;

and that is all

spiraling into infinity…






enough falls through the veil that i can hear

the announcers on tv

and my family in the kitchen

pouring champagne,


so that the first thing we do in the new year

is drink.


it isn’t as ironic for them as it is for me.

they will be drinking to something.

i will only be drinking to drown.

i take a glass of something that looks

like water, but god, it doesn’t taste like

water, thank god.

it makes me want to dance

and sleep

all at once.


everybody laughs

about how he taught me to dance

standing on his feet.

he asks me to dance again. I refuse. I refuse.




1 thought on “oops I did it again”

  1. I really really love the poem you end with here. It reminds me of something I loved or felt before but that I can’t remember that well anymore. Also, something about your broken mug has struck me in a meaningful way. Maybe it’s that you are squirreling away the pieces. Maybe it’s that it had an impact on you. Maybe it’s just that I’d really like to know what caused you to throw it in the first place.

    Hang in there. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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