with lips that wish to remain forever sealed i enter the kitchen. one more silent day would increase the panic in mother. so i utter the words good morning when she greets me with a kiss on the cheek. "you haven't been sleeping" she observes. i make an attempt to object. i remind her that i just woke up, and that the act of waking up requires me to sleep first. she raises her hands to my face, and touches my cheeks. "your eyes have sunk into deep dark holes, you are not sleeping properly." she knows my trouble with Mistress Sleep. she has witnessed it for over 20 years. she knows it, but she can't understand it. her logic is simple, if i tire myself enough during the day, i will sleep a dreamless sleep. if you remind her of her sleepless nights, the ones she sat waiting for jingling keys at the door, she replies with a simple "i have you for a daughter, you don't have kids."

her body is leaning in for a hug, but i can't take it this morning. i know how mean it is to block shows of affection. but it hurts people more when i let them touch me and my body doesn't respond. i make my move towards the coffee machine.

"what are your plans today?"
"nothing."
"how is school going?"
"it is not."
"should i be worried?"
"yes."
"you have got to be kidding me."
"i am only kidding myself."
"you have to graduate this year."
"i don't have to do a goddamn thing."

i sound like a difficult teenager. that, right there, is enough to be depressed. but i am bitter this morning. i am not bitter for all the sacrifices i've made, i'm bitter for i know i would make them all over again. it is funny for i rarely make sacrifices, and the ones i've made were always logical in some sense. i'm bitter for i did things that were in direct contradiction with my instincts.

i don't even remember the silent sacrifices that were made to protect and hold. i am not in the habit of calling them sacrifices for my being wants to protect and my love wishes to hold. however i remember the impossible things that were asked of me. my soul would ache and my eyes would sink in deep. i would oblige, but i couldn't comprehend why i was asked to do those things.

years ago, i was seeing a psychiatrist. i remember sitting in her cramped office with my hands on my lap. there were no tears in my eyes; i hadn't yet met the man who taught me how to cry again. i had asked her "why?" i wanted her to tell me why i keep holding on, why i agree to pointless stuff with the hope of salvaging things; i wanted to know why i had to die before i could leave. i remember her serious face. she had said "you taught yourself to hold on. you wouldn't have survived the traumas you survived if you didn't believe there was hope until the last breath." there it was; the mechanism that had saved me over and over again would simultaneously destroy other parts of me…

it kills mother when i am like this. she likes it when i am full of good wishes and hope. she would even prefer my anger to this silent dark hole that sucks the life force out of her. i shake the thought away, i am tired and i do not care.

every time i go into the bathroom i put my head under the cold water. i let it freeze my aching scalp for a few minutes. as water drips from my hair i look into the mirror with indifferent eyes:

"what you were
will not happen again.

the tigers have found me
and I do not care."

let me erase
every word
i've written.

let me erase
every sigh,
every smile.

i have
no use
for them.

the mirrors are
laughing at me;
make them stop.

confessions full of jack

i am wary of people who describe themselves;
i am weary of describing myself.

confessions full of jack

i lead a pretty sheltered life. the ideas i harbor do not feed on current events; they don't feed enough to blossom and have an impact. it is quite possible that i will never become a productive member of society.

i still hold on to a few hope crumbs. maybe i won't feel the need to be so self-absorbed for the rest of my life.

confessions full of jack

i have a to-do-list of the to-do-lists i need to make.

confessions full of jack

i tend to blame myself when things go wrong. and i don't get it when people describe this behaviour as self-derogatory. at best it is being obsessed with control, but mainly it is just a narcissistic tendency. can't you see; i am telling you that a single different act on my part had the power to make everything all better. i have delusions of grandeur not self-hatred.

i twirl on purple grass
and write ballads on white hills.

(intentions are moot
if the actions fail.)