This poem is not a personal poem.
This poem doesn’t care.
This poem says “fuck it”.
This poem is trying to adopt a “fuck it” attitude towards anything out of her control. Or anything within her control that is not about putting food on the table.
Which is what?
Everything involves food.
This poem wants.
This poem is hungry.
This poem lusts.
This poem wants to be held safely.
This poem is a crazy motherfucker.
This poem can be prim.
This is not a poem that poets read.
This poem is a disaster of the best kind.
This poem hears your call.
To be still.
To be real.
To sink down to your bones.
To nestle.
To gather.
To love.
The wrong person.
Does the poet really believe that there are right people to love?
This poem is not self-conscious.
This poem wore a strapless dress and danced her uncoordinated ass off and felt beautiful + fat + beautiful + sweaty + real + knowing this day is not about me.
This poem is a surrender.
This poem is a plea to make things right.
Make things rise.
Like your favorite anadama bread. It’s the molasses that gives it that sweetness.
This poem says, “Heyyyyy, over here”.
This poem is tired. Depleted.
This poem has grown.
This poem was much more raw a year ago.
This poem is fascinated by the creative process which mirrors every single aspect of life + love.
This poem is my saving grace.
This poem would look good in yellow.
This poem likes you.
This poem is not a people pleaser.
This poem has really good boundaries.
This poem is not a good girl.
This poem called him out last night.
This poem, this dear loveable poem, sees so much.
Like a giant sky soaking it all up.
Like a tiny tent where you and I lay under the stars.
Held.
This poem is not abstract art.
This poem is not conceptual.
This poem does not need footnotes.
This poem wants to make out with you.
This poem felt impressive having a copy of the New Yorker to read when he dropped by. Even though it’s borrowed. This poem only pretends to read the New Yorker.
This poem is trying too hard.
This poem wants a social media diet.
No more liking.
Curling up in a ball and foot massage would be nice.
(Wrote in Laurie Wagner’s wild writing class today)