Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again- and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.
There are weeks in which I do not shave and I think of
you. Bullied by a beam of light.
Your apartment a fester of fireflies
cooked in the habitual
recollection of love,
a season of ill-projected
You ask me how often I’ve written
in the month of August.
I tell you summer
I am very tired and confident that nothing will change
so why do I continue to make attempts
Because self respect
Because inpatient means I lose my job
Maybe if I had more money that’d help and I wouldn’t feel so strangled all the time