when someone says, ‘he’s right over there, but don’t look now,’ i never do.
it is hard to gauge what people actually want versus what they expect from you.
i try to be easy but i’m not.
i try to be self-sufficient but i still seek validation from people i don’t trust.
i try to be a grown woman but my mom is sending me a box of tea in the mail because she worries about me.
i try not to think about a person who is far away but i think about him all the time.
i think about everyone else too.
we are lucky if we get one minute of quietness a day, and if we do, we never remember it.
i only remember the talking that i watch other mouths make at me.
i only remember the grime on the fingers of homeless people asking for change.
i only remember shaking my head and wringing my hands.
i only remember that i’m still comparing myself to the people who made fun of me in middle school.
i only remember telling him to choke me because we would both like it.
i don’t remember the silence but i think it’s supposed to be that way.
i reach for things after i notice they are across the room and i am too high to stand.
i reach in general because once again i am in desperate need of attention.
i categorize people into who i am avoiding and who i want to be the only person available for.
luckily, there are very few people left.
luckily, here we are.
yes, i am falling asleep alone tonight.
yes, i am here, how may i help.
no, thank you.
you are the new you in my poems.
Growing up, I didn’t read novels by women. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s almost like I didn’t think that I needed to or, I guess, I didn’t know that I needed to. I was perfectly happy in a world contained by men. I adopted the posture of the brooding male as my own. I was Salinger, I was Kerouac, I was any male protagonist in a novel that one of my boyfriends recommended. I didn’t know that there was a specific female sadness so I was content with relating to a generalized one. And in a way, reading these novels was less of a way to relate and more of a way to learn how to be the type of girl that these male novelists liked. One of my first ambitions wasn’t to be a writer – it was to be a writer’s muse.
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I think I am always addressing an ambivalent audience: one that watches without witnessing, one that is hungry for women’s blood.
Kate Durbin in BOMB Magazine
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The arts and the sciences are seen as separate tracks, and students are encouraged to specialize in one or the other. If we wish to nurture creative students, this may be a serious error.
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Does the art itself matter or is it irrelevant? There are lots of contemporary artists who make work about issues where success is equated with conversation, hype, controversy, and sales. Does it matter if the drawings were made intentionally or un-intentionally badly and they depict consensual and non-consensual heterosexual acts where men hold all the power? We get ambushed by the power of the William Crawford story before we can even look at the drawings or question their message.
So many intersecting concerns in poetry & art. Both are ART.
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