ever green

[ content warning: self harm, ED, anxiety ]

anxiety attacks

it eats itself

because where It begins and I begin are impossible to delineate

i have intrusive thoughts, yes

but can any one hop into my head and point to the bits that aren't "me"?

it's all a big soup, inside my own skull, outside it, inside and out of my guts

this extends to all space and time: it's an infinite soup without edges

different temperature and taste for every one

i am experiencing an anxiety attack right now and realize my writing isn't good,

i'm also listening to julien baker's new album because it makes me cry and feel less alone

i haven't done this in quite awhile but to cope with the nervousness and impossible dread

i made some cuts into my arms and legs with a razor blade

the blade was manufactured with the intent for it to be part a foot scraper

that scrapes the calloused skin off your feet

i genuinely love how the cuts look, so red and drippy

i don't feel the need the draw a line between these forms that take shape on my skin, revealing what's inside me, 

and drawing in my sketch book

i am proud of myself because i chose to eat dinner, when i was scared to 

because i have been told an indefinable number of times that people like me shouldn't eat

that being small is better

being weak is precious

being frail is noble

not eating is simply an exercise in will power and strength, which are virtues

of course i know this is all lies and bullshit

but i believe it, because capitalism and patriarchy have hurt my brain

and indirectly - or directly? - have hurt my body. 

where does a body end and a person begin? 

i think i may have a bath and watch an ingmar bergman film because everything else seems quite pointless and sad 

i have been doing so well lately, or feel not depressed anyways

this is not the case today. 

and i remain here, alone. because i believe it's impossible to truly connect with any thing/ one else.

this life is a miracle, but it appears to be without a real purpose. 

i do not know what i am supposed to do in these moments- and death does seem like a meaningful return home, while this limbo in this body is an unwanted and very uncomfortable challenge in horror and confusion and pain 

are there actual bones in me? i feel like digging into my skin and muscle until i find them so i can tear them out and look at the details in them- those air holes i have seen in the bones of other mammals- what are they for? where did they come from? 

i feel like a mouse frantically chewing off its own tail and squealing manically ---

there is a strange catharsis in this state, like i know i can face anything because this is already a forced practice in sitting in my own fear

this is what i am in constant worry about having to embody 

i realized the other morning that almost nothing i do is really about pleasure or joy, it's about coping, compromising, and finding - hopefully, at best - safety and comfort and understanding in this inexplicable place. 

we are dumped here and no one lets us in on what is going on 

dust floats through the air like light

Between my fingers 

I feel the textures of memories past

In those dusty moments thought forgotten- 

they remain with me, 

living in small spaces under my nails and in my ears

both sad 

and sweet 

to sense.

My Body fleetingly recreates those banal settings 

without my consent, without warning, but not undesired.

I find myself returning 

to sounds feelings shadows lights buckles buttons bodies rooms fears laughs hopes dreams

believed to be left behind, behind

But they’ve been here with me 

this whole time.

overnight guest

when i lie next to someone New

running my finger tips and eyes

across the arches, shadows, valleys, dips, canyons, mountains, rivers

delicate and hard, smooth and rough

these landscapes of their form

their body

i am exploring a nation: a sovereign space.

i am transported, have travelled to another world,

been given consent to be confronted 

with all these rich, historic textures, shapes and shades

A feast for my senses

this Gift is Intimacy

i am never alone because the moon is always near

After a hot bath I step out onto a balcony, naked

and watch steam rise off my body into the chilled night of darkness, 

lit by the persevering moon 

and industrial florescent bulbs across the street.

A few nights ago I walked past an ominously towering metal skeleton 

of a building: only beams constructed so far. 

(An advertisement assured me it would metamorphose 

into a glossy series of living compartments 

for people who have hundreds of thousands of dollars to spend.)

A bright circle of moon shone behind the steel bones

illuminating the wallless stair well which zig zagged up to nowhere, 

reminding me of a hopeless, dystopian bell tower.

What would this vision have spurred

 in the stomachs, minds and bodies of those who lived

when cathedrals governed and digital worlds were not yet born?

Is this brutalist, metallic tower a horrible figure or a magnificent one?

Were ancestors able to conjure an imagining of such a convoluted future?

The same moon continues to light our shadows, 

regardless of the scenes on which it shines down.

I wonder what architectures, what futures and ideas

it will illuminate in 1,000 years,

when this capsule around "me" has returned 

entirely 

to steam.