don't read this

i want to write something without marketing myself for others to read it. i want to write things no one sees. i want to write this without linking it in my instagram story.

GATHER! GATHER! i’m so GLAD you could make it.

i imagine myself saying this in a british accent, talking around the table… there’s 6 of us here, maybe more… i suppose i have more to say. i drawl the word “suppose” and you laugh. you’re smiling right now.

my editor makes notes on my poetry. he says it’s too explanatory. he says i need to trust my audience more. “stop explaining it,” he says. “it’s a thing novice poets do. don’t say ‘i miss you,’ show me.”

poetry is flowery. poetry is weeds. it’s enigmatic. it’s riddles to the wind. i want to write something without naming it. this!!! this??? this is not poetry, this is not prose, this is not a diary entry, this is not a newsletter… it’s… it’s… i’m explaining too much now. i told you, i’m done explaining things. i take a small albino bunny out of the inside of my jacket. i stroke it. no one looks surprised. i carry on.

in the shower i paced. i swung my arms around. i shouted, “i will write an antithesis to what i feel substack should be!!!!” and the crowd goes, “WHAT?”

you ever say something in your head and know there’s no chance of articulating it in real life. see how i edited the “know” to be bold and italics… my editor says to stop doing that. to stop doubling down and explaining things. let it breathe… ok fine. one time i did mushrooms and i got the greatest and most blinding self proclamation… self manifesto… self-knowing-self momento… and still, to this day, i can’t put it in words, really.

i’m writing an antithesis to the committee in my mind who thinks i need to deliver a lesson to you all… which, when i’m wearing that hat my blood is alchemical, give me my worst experience and i’ll color it with my 64-crayon crayola with all the beautiful lessons it bestowed on me. i curtsy with it. yes, call me rumplestiltskin!

you are all sitting around the table wondering when i’ll get to the point. there is no point. i’m just babbling. i’m not manic. i hate that word. i simply get to take you on a journey. i’m laying the bricks down as we speak, are you still here? she’s doing the italics thing again… no one says it out loud but you all noticed it. i twirl.

it’s like being /cum/ inside, when it’s really bad but it feels right. eyebrows perked up after that one. i’ll probably wake up and regret writing that in the substack but i’m tired of everyone being prudes. in the book i’m reading: Tower of Dawn by Sarah J. Maas, she writes, “then she guided him down another and another, until he was sitting up to his shoulders. Eye-level with her full, peaked breasts.”

full! peaked! breasts! it paints a picture right? these books are packed with eroticism and i wouldn’t even consider it completely smut. this book series has sold over 75 million copies. that means that 75 million people are much dirtier than we all pretend to be. my favorite paintings in people’s apartments are the naked ones. there’s nothing heinous about it. we are all naked little creatures. we all have sex. we were all born. i’m tired of the prudishness.

i take your boyish grin and i put it on my night stand. i thump my fists on the table. i stop talking in a british accent. i am more beautiful because i let you all see me without a mask. i strip it all. i’m naked!!! save for the mask… ok fine, i’ll take one off right now. the bubbly mask. next, the attractive mask. then, the nonchalant mask. here i am now left with the one who looks at you too long mask. and lastly, the one that everybody likes mask.

oh, you like that? you like when there’s less to me. more of you to assign to me. i know this game, i play this game. boyish grin. i hate the way freedom smells from a cage. prop me up. gut me. hold me. stick your hands in me. jump inside with me. i love it when you play with me.

a boy once told me he doesn’t know what i mean when i write but he likes it. poetic puzzles. i nudge you with my elbow. you lean in. listen dear, i am in on a way of seeing that can’t be explained.

you see. this is the paint. this is the modge podge. i’m throwing things on the table now. i spit when i talk now. this is when i create a spell, a string of paths and nooks— and surprise! that disgusting dead thing you thought you buried.

why would you do that?

i drop it at your feet.

sorry about that.

sorry about the way i stare. sorry about the way i kissed you on molly and pushed you off the cliff. you came for the crash. i came for the rapture. sorry about leaving with someone else. sorry for showing up at your door step high. i shouldn’t have done that. disgusting, selfish girl!

sorry, i just wanted to know what he tasted like. he tasted like wet tongue… gooey, melty. he tasted like me.

sorry i betrayed you.

you’re still sitting at the table wondering if you need to console me or say something. please, just. just stop. just don’t. just — who are you? are you a child? a man? a ghost? the playgrounds i left behind? the shoes i can’t tie? that person who won’t make it to the last line? what a party right? i open a bottle of wine. i dump it on the floor. i don’t drink anymore!

you’re halfway out the door, that’s fine. that’s fine. i’m making snow angels in the wine. good bye! good bye!