03/23/18, 3:43am

this is how I knew, definitively, how little I deserve him, and how lucky I am, and how ridiculously large my capacity to hurt him is:

here’s what I said:

I feel like you don’t actually love me but that you believe that you do, and I don’t know how to tell you that.

and then I continued, and as I continued, I watched, and I talked, and I saw: his eyes, reddening, improbably, impossibly: his lips turning down not in a frown but in open-mouthed grief, a shudder in his being and a crumble and I stopped talking and went to stop this thing, this thing that was happening, this thing that I had singlehandedly caused. — I can’t believe I made you feel like I don’t love you because I love you and I know it’s love because it’s there are the time and it’s so big and I can’t believe I don’t know how to show it and and and —

how selfish I had been, telling him this as if I was the only one who would hurt. it’s easy to forget that there are good people. in revolving my sorrow around his object, I forget that he’s there. I held his face in my hands.

we were quiet.

I believe you, I said.

because I cried?, he said.

no, I said.

yes, I thought. this bothered me up until right now, but really: yes; yes, because I need to see this; that he cares this much.



how did I go from:
flinching at his touch to:
enveloping him
because I finally made tears fall. I can see now
it is possible to comfort someone who has hurt
you and feel numb. to bring the hammer
down and instantly shush the wreckage back
into a whole; I have never seen him
as this: open mouth, desperate
eyes to the sky through monochrome
night — I take it back, I take it back —
you rock, squeeze, rock, breathe

squeeze your eyes, bury your face
into the tremble until it is absorbed
back into you and it is
better, it is
the same

this being: this ball of serotonin, the swaying
laugh: you’ll be ok. the next morning had
good lighting. it was sunny.
crying is manipulative, I say.
you nod.

03/08/18, 11:33pm: note from about a week ago

EDIT: After noticing that reading my journals seriously affects my state of mind, for the purposes of future me’s mental health, it’s necessary to preclude this with a note: this is NOT healthy. This is NOT ok. Furthermore, this poem is wallowing in self-pity, self-hatred, and is furthermore self-absorbed, and is perhaps even more damaging because it’s self-aware of itself: self-critical does not mean valid. Acknowledging and teasing out flaws and unhealthy thoughts just to let them sit there is not justification. Read this as a snapshot of a state of mind, not one to ever let yourself empathize  with again, or maybe: read this as a warning flag, if you ever empathize with it. Remember: empathy. Have empathy.

sorry not sorry, but really actually I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry that I turn every conversation into systemic discourse.
I’m sorry that I can’t see a movie without talking
about the depiction of poc and whatever else
shit that poops the party when
your white friends try to connect with me
by bringing up the tale of genji after I say the word

I don’t have the guts
to let a silence hang.

often I forget who I am
often forgetting is utterly impossible

you are everything I
couldn’t be 5 years ago and somehow
I like you
I love you
I might loathe
loave — shh, that’s an inside joke —

oh wait
how public is this supposed to be?
who do I write for anyway?

these are the questions I don’t want the answer to:
this is the place I choose to publish because I know you won’t ever read it.
this is where I go to hide from you
because after trying to pull you in I’m realizing that some places,
as I’ve always known, are inaccessible
I didn’t know they could be inaccessible to you
I’m glad I have something that is inaccessible to you
— shh, that’s the disgusting part of me —
— oops, did I just write that? —

but this place is on sale, discounted; that’s
the difference; my places
are always at a markdown; don’t tell me
otherwise, I won’t believe it. safe spaces are for
people who need to retreat, because
you never need to retreat —
— oh god, see what I do to you? what I make you? —

here’s what I can’t stand: that I have the ability to project infinite
privilege onto another human being. who cares
if I’m right some of the time?
who cares if I’m backed systemically,
theoretically, epistemologically, who
cares if I can rehearse the critique
and anti-critiques of in
until I’m blue, yellow, black, red, white,
white, white, Oops
I gave it away didn’t you know that you fell in love
with me only because I’ve spent my entire life trying to fade to white,
does that conflict with my daily ramblings, Oh Shit
this is something I never ever want
to think about: one-way internalized racism
can generate two-way love
that’s shockingly, beautifully, terrifyingly
real, well let’s be honest here 
deep down I hope it comes out to white
I still hope I come out to white
of course I think about this every day
the only thing I ever wanted was to write
my experience as beauty and not pity