misery is as misery does. she sits there every day,
watching her movies, drinking her coffee. and she is
headed for the hills, running for forty six thousand dollars
so she can go kill herself later, or maybe in a few minutes.
it's not a waste if you don't consider the possibilities. and
she is grateful, she is miserable. she counts the thoughts in
her head, sets them out and looks at them privately, like she
is her own fly on the wall. and she is healthy. she is woman,
like me; she is saddened by the things she can not understand.
and she is more saddened by the things she can understand
because sometimes knowing is more painful than ignoring
or never realizing at all.
and she sweats. she types out manuscripts of shit and
keeps going. she doesn't sleep and she ignores nature's call. she
is glued to her pen and the late night movies that she watches on
repeat. but does that make her a writer? because one touches a pen
to paper, does that make her any better than anyone else who has
ever done the same thing? but she writes and yells and listens to
music, either because it's cool or because she enjoys it, or maybe
just because she has to, this compulsion.
and she takes pictures and hangs them nowhere because
looking at them isn't always better than having them. and she makes
art and she looks at it like she's an artist. some people feel oppressed
by her angry defeatism and her dark-skinned womanhood. some
feel that she is acting out a part that she is not very good at playing. but
how do you attain all natural? how do you be who she is without
losing some part of herself? because she has lost much of herself
to herself without knowing it yet.
she walks out of the front of her house, knowing that she will
never see herself again. and she waits for someone to say something
so she can turn around, because she can never turn around on her own.