February so far:
Crushing, inexorable anxiety at the state of the world.
Writing poems, that I think are okay like:
Drawing a blank
In this long
Waves of fear crash and roll
From shore to shore
Against the walls
That surround this sleepless and vulnerable Body
Turns out the flags aren’t as dead
At the tops of their poles
As we had hoped
Back when we were young
Now you get this sinking feeling
Deep in your bones
Cold as cold as cold
That the flags are glaring
Baring teeth, awake
And hungry for blood
Just like they were all along
Consuming the young and the old
The sick and the poor
Low men, with plunder in their eyes
Teeth like knives
Grinding down lives
Gazing from gilded towers
Satisfied with the reckoning
We have wrought
As all hell and war
Comes knocking on every door.
Trying to finish this fucking zine I started in November.
Casting remnants of toxic connections into the sound.
Giving thanks to the light stretching longer into the days.
Torrid pre-apocalypse romances.
Making plans that involve long term survival.
Doing my best to use my creative energy in spite of the world, even when it feels completely futile.
Feeling safe in my skin, despite the world.
Thinking about how if it’s the end of the world, so much of these hard feelings aren’t worth holding onto.