november 22 2024

I’m listening to Martha Wainwright and I’m keeling over. It’s incredible - the way that the right words and a wrought iron voice can have that kind of effect. She’s crooning. She’s chanting. She’s singing in French, too. I clasp my hands together and pray. 

I know I don’t have any real problems so this sounds so bad but I’m on my knees beneath my bathroom sink and I’m begging God to please make me less sensitive. Please please please let me get what I want and take away these goddamn neurons and nervous fibres. Living and loving is impossible and I can’t take it anymore. I don’t have any tears left. I don’t have any more heart to break. All I have left are my words. All I have left is this poetry.