–by Becky WTGH


I’ve been writing so much lately.

I’m sure you’ve all noticed. It’s been perpetual.

My entries have tripled. Each month, exponential.

Kind of, right? Ugh, math is beyond me.

I was good at it at school, but was told to struggle

and be interested in other things. So

I struggled, then I focused on other things.

Like music and poetry. You know,

stupid chick shit. Like my brain

My brain is just stupid chick shit

I fucking hate all of it

I tried to just like,

scrub out my brain. Restart.

I can’t. I tried to restart my body,

I can’t. I tried to restart my life, but it just

lays there, dead. I am restarting, but I am also

revisiting. My brain spurts out the words

and I see the shapes of my thoughts

still somehow, feminine. Always.

What I thought were mountains, ended

Up being valleys. The valleys ended and the rivers

Started flowing. I cry with dry eyes now. I once knew a guy

who could sleep with his eyes open. I think he might’ve been lying, but

I know that I can cry without tears, so why wouldn’t he be able

to sleep without closing his eyes? Who am I to say he

is a liar. We are all lying about some stuff, I guess. That

is certainly what everyone is so afraid of. That is what I am constantly

being accused of. Why would I lie? What do I gain from that. I know

that many withhold. Perceiving the greater good, when fact

is, there is no greater good. There is no bad. There just is.

Everything just is. We are all just here. I have tried to

leave here so many times. Everytime I try to leave

someone smiling yanks me. Peaks and valleys,

You know you’ve arrived, when you

start to head back. I’m not sure

what I’m doing here, but I do

know that I am supposed to be doing

everything fervently. FERVENTLY. What else

is there for me to do here, but to boil. I am pus, I am

broiling. I want to fry my skin and put hot pepper jelly on me.

I am a miserable cunty bitch, I am ungrateful, and I am fucking hungry.

Why can’t I fry my liver and share my creative passions with the world?

Aren’t we all just chasing peaks, stumbling, falling into valleys?

I have failed enough to make a one-woman rainbow valley

My life is everest and I’m frozen, pondering, wondering

if I should get up, and see the peak. I will never get there

I would overthink. I don’t need to travel to Everest

to be frozen in thought, lost in memory.

Trapped in a cave, shivering. My mind

Freezing slowly, dying slower.

I wonder what those climbers think about

when their limbs stop working, and their lashes stick.

It takes a while for them to die, like that. Frozen, icicles,

People-pops, hiking landmarks for future mountaineers.

I guess that is what we all are, regardless. Whether you freeze

on the top of the peak, or at the bottom of the valley. Does it matter?

Does it matter how you die, if all you did was blather on and on

and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on

until you make a poem in the shape of mountainous tits

because you’re a bored lonely pervert, sick and tired

of all this pretentious shit. Why write prose? When

you could craft breasts from words, sloping

down, shaping up. Oooohhh… are they

mountains? Are they tits, like he said?

Yes, I’m trying male pronouns.

I do have penis envy.

It fucking sucks.

But, I daydream

about the mountains


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