She was Goldilocks; possibly, she was Mic Jagger from the Rolling Stones. Her porridge always seemed to be too hot or too cold, and, no matter how hard she tried, satisfaction evaded her.
Oh, I must be Eeyore, she thought.
Only on some days, she realized.
In this particular moment, she must have been Eeyore, or Goldilocks, or even Mic Jagger. She, sad girl, was sitting Indian-style on midwestern grass in the dead of night. The resident geese were tucked away for the evening, and so she was all emptied out by an emptied out pond. Despite having accomplished a hard day’s work, with all her studies and writings, she felt so sad. No, not that painstaking sadness, thank Woolf, but the kind of sadness that leaves a person in a freeze frame while the world buzzes on by. Except, over time, the buzzing becomes this blur, and no single face is really recognizable anymore.
Where did all the people go, she asked the night.
The night said nothing, and so she assumed they were still out there, even though she was not.
It was all just really upsetting to her; toiling away, day-in and day-out, and for what? She couldn’t see the point of it all, and the world would not let her be James Joyce, anyhow.
Two hands claspedinprayer
Head,shoulders bent forward
Forgivemefather for I know what I do,
Not me, I sureasHell don’t.
I walk the other way to avoid all the smalltalk,
Drink straight from the faucet mostly.
Ramble off an assortment of curse words,
I know they make people feel weird.
Read the small print even when asked to skim,
I don’t shower daily.
Wear black with brown even when it’s unfashionable,
Refuse to greet with a handshake.
Hot car roasts me/
Waiting for C. at his therapist’s office/
Hope his therapist doesn’t think I’m a bitch/
She probably will/
Called my Pdoc; these pills are making my skin breakout/
I’m only half insecure about it/
I want to be perfect/
Being thin isn’t enough so I need to work out/
Laid by the pool a few hours ago/
Puberty-influenced boys gave shameless stares/
I told C. they would/
C. knows D. and I had sex/
We’re getting used to to his gay/
I thought of the bliss of nudity out in the open/
Sun and breeze on fleshy skin/
In my right mind, I don’t think I can be here much longer/
Read “Tender Buttons” by Gertrude Stein/
Found it fascinating for reasons unclear/
Received love letter from D. today in mailbox/
The aesthetics made up for the empty words/
I suppose I am a bitch/
Certain parts made me smile/
Maybe I should just appreciate that he took the time/
I am not a romantic/
D. is a romantic/
Pencil is clanging against my thumb so rapid/
Eyes are bored/
Where’s the liveliness?/
C.’s walking out the door/
Why is life so lifeless for you, poor child?
Is there a thing in this world that could lighten you up, put a smile on your face?
You are brooding, but why?
Has someone wronged you, or has misfortune fallen upon you?
Have your clouds been filled with nothing but rain, leaving your days bleak and overcast?
Do you have any words to profess your empty melancholy, or do you want to just sit there in silence?
You’ll be okay, with your youth and your ambitions, and your future sprawled out in front of you,
Like a series of still-lifes in a gallery,
your smiles, tears, and daydreams of tomorrow on display,
Framed in white and hung on drywall for you to observe,
A procession of your forms in due time and the sun holding your hand,
Ushering you into your last days.
Don’t you see how remarkable all this is?
To live and breathe, and one day no longer?
For now, you are alive and the stars are your company,
So radiate the light of living and bask in minutes that will have you.
She felt her frown as she wore her scowl
And ached her sad while showing her bitter,
So it’s easy to see why no one knew her blue,
and often mistook her for red.