<working> on this <draft> to figure out if it is more than just <me> processing <my feelings> about dropping out of grad school and not sending poetry out to journals for <almost> a decade now. <i> always <wrote> the most when <i> was <unhappy / depressed>.
now.
happy-loved-wasted potential.
the lines never stuttered when i was
living on hot sauced drenched curly fries
and extra-large, extra-sweet coffees,
white knuckled and split lipped,
trauma and guts spilling out to strangers in writing workshops
winning scholarships, publishing poems.
now.
happy-loved-wasted potential.
when was the last time you created?
I don't know how to write joy.
perhaps because it fled upon crossing home's threshold.
or is it the other way around
and i failed to narrate it into existence,
neglecting the little sparks that collectively
build warmth even in the cold and filth.
now.
happy-loved-wasted potential.
what comes to you in your space of comfort?
Do Androids Dream of Dick? Writings of a Queer Posthumanist 