I was born on a cold Michigan morning in December. To a thin, feisty woman with long golden hair and a Polish immigrant with a big smile and a lot of hope. The night before, I disrupted a dinner of my parent’s favorite–ribs (ironic, right?), and my mom’s water broke at a grocery store as she…
sometimes, out of nowhere, i cry about you.
it’s like something sealed within me starts to leak.
i miss the way it felt to put my hand over yours. or to hear your laugh over the telephone lines. sometimes i just want nothing more than to hear you call me Ray.
i can count the full tears on one hand before i pack myself back up.
the things that i thought you could
A sudden dream
In the darkness, suddenly you’d say
Detroit needs someone like you.
I need someone like you.
I tell people sometimes that depression is like drowning, but there isn’t enough grace left for death to just come quickly, quietly, and do his work. Instead, it’s fighting against the current, the endless onslaught of wave after wave, trying to catch breath that doesn’t come. It doesn’t matter if there’s a hand extended up to the cold, unforgiving sun; no one bends down to take it, there’s no one to grab on and say “i’ve got you, don’t you worry.”
The most dangerous part about this, I believe, is the rescue fantasy. Every addict has one; I am no exception. I used to think that someone would come running in to my bathroom, kicking open the door on their way, and scoop me into their arms. That there was someone looking out for me, caring enough to take me away and keep me safe. Of course, that’s demented in its selfishness. Everyone’s got pain. Sure, some people more than others, but bottom line: we’re all wrapped up in our own worlds of pain, and it’s so hard to see through the cellophane put over our eyes.
everything makes me miss you when I’m still trying to forget you.
Oh we’re so very precious, you and I
And everything that you do makes me want to die
Some people just aren’t worth
The camera clicks.
Nothing but ghosts
“Love is only a recognition of our own guilt and imperfection, and a supplication for forgiveness to the perfect beloved. This is why we love those who are more beautiful than ourselves, why we fear them, and why we must be unhappy lovers. When we make ourselves high priests of art we deceive ourselves again, art is like a genie. It is more powerful than ourselves, but only by virtue of ourselves does it exist and create.” — Ginsberg to Kerouac, September, 1945