Things just don’t make sense.
“Berlin was charismatic in the roguish way of a love… It was a lover who was a little dangerous in ways that didn’t always show, keeping you a bit on edge, a bit in love and endlessly forgiving because he made her feel that she was exactly where she was meant to be… Berlin made you like who you were when you were there, as if everything worth being a part of in the world - all those modern ideas about sex and art and women; all that possibility - was right there, in its dark, beating heart.”
Whitney Otto, Eight Girls Taking Pictures
"Why do you write poetry?"
Because I have forgotten everything else.
Because there are questions that no one has answered. Because there are dreams that have snuck up from behind me and left burns in the places that I can’t reach with just my hands, with just my skin. Because there are muscles that I’ve only just discovered the uses for. Because there is no other place for me to go but here, a place where there are only more questions - only more metaphors, only more excuses. Because I’m scared of cutting into myself with a knife, and have found that this page is an incision, that these words are sharper than the blades that people have dug into their stomachs. Because there is light just as much as there is darkness; because the man who works in the falafel truck on Third Ave no longer knows my name. Because there is such a thing as love. Because there is no such a thing as love. […] I write because I am finally giving in to my own name, am no longer running from where I have come from and am no longer running towards anything and because the only place where I can feel myself feel is in paper. Because margins are no longer cutting it for me. Because there are gaps between teeth and gaps between people and people still wonder why there is such a thing as loneliness. Because there are dead that don’t want to rest. Because there are living that want to be dead. Because my Writing Teacher told me that my favorite author was an asshole. Because I’m trying to prove that I exist, that I’m alive, that I’m not a mistake but something blooming. Because there is still no cure for sorrow. […] Because I have seen love - have witnessed love, have touched love, have fought with love, have tried to drown love only to see it again one morning, making me coffee in the kitchen - humming a song that I thought I had forgotten. Because there are people that I’m scared to call. Because when I think of voicemails I think of bad news. […] Because there is a world that I will never see. Because you broke my heart. Because I broke yours. Because we still don’t understand how that could be so. Because. Because. Because I still love you. Because I always will. Because you are the most honest verse I have ever never written. Because fuck poetry. Because fuck me. Because please. Because yes. Because you.
Take my hand and I will lead you to the so called end
Hold me tight and I’ll forgive you for making me stay
Hospitals, my heart and other sterile places
You can just picture it. Your father in a chair next to him, holding his motionless hand in his own. You’re disturbed by him ending every single one of his rushed sentences with the term “papa”.