deepundergroundpoetry.com
Friday, 19:44
My phone has 17 tabs open. I look at an encyclopaedia of craft patterns and recipes and weird facts I’ve shared with weirder friends. I don’t want to get frustrated by it, but I do, because that’s my mind so we discovered in therapy - my phone is my mind. The tabs are open, constantly refreshing, constantly flickering in the background.
I spent the whole morning talking about stress. How I deal with it. How it chews me up, spits me out. How much I’ve inherited the neurotic shoes of my Mother as they slide neatly under the desk at night. And I hate that I’m like that. I hate that the shit that weighs her down has become lead in my pockets. Larkin’s words of “they fuck you up, your Mum and Dad” branding themselves into my arm. Where the scars are. Where the bad came out. Where the light could not reach. And I want to tell them how I’ve failed everyone, but mostly myself.
I’m avoidant because my ex was a piece of shit. There’s no way to sugarcoat that. Poetry saved me in a lot of ways - allowed me to speak without being made to feel like I was nothing. Gave me the permission to open up my mouth, let anger spill out without repercussions or ridicule. Without the belittling of pain. And sometimes I can’t talk. Not because there’s nothing there, but because I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a voice without some cunt shooting it down. How people write me off because of it. Because silence makes people uncomfortable. Reminds them of everything they’re not.
So I draw my own target on my head.
And sit.
And wait.
Wondering what it would be like to sit in a room in front of him. What if my mind was a projector. What if he had to watch what he did. How it ripped me the fuck apart. How it echoed through empty bottles and cigarette packets for years. Years of abusing myself as much as he did.
Understand this isn’t a call for sympathy as much as it is a call to arms. It’s for myself. So I can celebrate the mess that I am. And my love of perfection means I’m good at it.
Go big or go home.
And if you’ve read this far, I fear fucking everything up. I fear taking those fuck ups into the future. I fear being two broken people unable to find a shred of allowed happiness. I fear not giving you the love I cannot find within myself.
My phone has 17 tabs open. I look at articles on if I can die from wound infection, self-hypnosis, and Google maps as I note how small the ocean looks in pixels. I don’t want to get frustrated by it, but I do, because that’s my mind so we discovered in therapy - my phone is my mind.
All the lights are on late at night.
All the words are fucking screaming.
Published 12th Jul 2024
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13th Jul 2024 5:41am
Dear M,
This was a tough read of raw emotion. Which is why it is such great poetry. The deep dive into why we are the way we are and facing down those frightful demons takes so much work but the reward is huge. I admire this introspective write. The brutal honesty has many cathartic and relatable elements. H🌷
This was a tough read of raw emotion. Which is why it is such great poetry. The deep dive into why we are the way we are and facing down those frightful demons takes so much work but the reward is huge. I admire this introspective write. The brutal honesty has many cathartic and relatable elements. H🌷
