Its Not All About You, Now, Is It?

its not all about you, now, is it?

“i am almost completely soulless,”

i need to throw away everything in my room, throw away all my plants, throw away all my clothes, all my art,

“i am incapable of being human,”

i’m not thinking straight and i don’t remember how to calm down because everything i’m doing isn’t helping. i’ll try a different song, hell, an audiobook, deep breaths, god, i hate the feeling of coming down,

“i am incapable of being inhuman,”

why do i do this to myself again? its not unlike you to shit talk me backstage, and i’m sorry no one told you, (i thought someone would,) and its not unlike you to think everything is about you,

“i am living uncontrollably,”

(i watch your hair fall all over your face and i’ll look away and i’ll swear to never think about you like that again) and you’ll think that secret’s about you but its fucking not. i don’t think about you as much as you think i do.

(i’m lying to you and i’m lying to me,)

you, of all people, should understand, right? you should see through this, but you fucking don't.

three of thirty nine and counting - леви 2023

you handed over pieces of yourself. i told you from the beginning, this was a terrible idea. imaginary friend perched on a stool in the kitchen, waiting for me to gather up the courage to choke down my morning pills.

you’re a secret my peers don’t even know about. i mean sure, “i write on the side,” “i’m really more of a poet than an artist,” and all that jazz, but they don’t know shit about this. i like anonymity. nameless title cards. clipped out faces, blurred hands, and trailing frames. unfinished indesign files laying around my hard drive. the art of dragging things out for as long and as long and as long as i possibly can. i can break my work up into shows. but poetry doesn’t work like visual art galleries unless i give it visuals. and i try, all i’ve got are half finished sketchbook pages and notes crawling with ballpoint pen ink. and this isn’t even poetry, god, its just writing.

i think i’ve found my passion or some shit, less terrified for the future but still willing to let someone discover my cold body hanging by a rope. i’d be perfectly happy being an artist for the rest of my life but god, i don’t want to deal with the uncomfortable parts of life. i want words to flow from me not like they are, i want beauty dripping from my fingertips and i want people to like it. i want a fucking pat on the back. i want a hug. i want to be comforted, to be loved, which leads me back to why i do all this shit anyway. but it sounds pathetic,

Artist’s Statement:

I create art as a means to express my longing for emotional intimacy and desire to feel cared for. In “Seventeen” I depict my journey getting over a breakup that happened forever ago but please keep reading, there’s so much more you just don’t understand, i can give you receipts, quotes, i want you to feel what i feel, i want you to know that i— but i— i hope that you’re—

so i don’t know where these sentences were going or what the point is. the only reason i didn’t kill myself was because i wanted to graduate on time. well shit, i’ve got six weeks before i can officially fuck my entire life up. but i’m happy, right? i take long drives because the sunshine leaves a gentle smile on my face, not because i’m desperately searching for a distraction or a reason to keep going.

i don’t think i’ll ever find another person like you. i hate to quote that song that’s like “you’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you,” cuz fuck, that’s exactly what i’m trying to say. kicking, fighting, biting with the brick wall with absolutely clue i’m even here. well, it does, its fucking ignorant as shit. but that brick wall “loved” me, right? it “loved” me. it made me feel “loved” or whatever chemicals come with that. and that’s what i want again. he’ll take you in and make you think you can stop taking your antidepressants and then he’ll absolutely fuck your life over. and he just. gets away with it. and it comes out in all the worst ways possible. can you tell i’m resentful? its because i love dragging things out but i try to blame it on a desire to be an artist. some shit i’m not even good at.

this was supposed to end forever ago. but you don’t even remember. was there a point? was there a reason? no. you wanted to be beautiful and this is what you got.

future past:

because its everything, no, everything was never the deal. shut the door on terrible times. my shoes are an altar: remembrance: the things i love. can i trust you? would you lie to me? i wish i could disappear into the ground. be wiped from everyone's memory. i was never here, i never existed. maybe i'll wake up. i don't remember my first out of body experience. i don't remember my last. its amazing, the things you miss when you aren't paying. paying attention. i'm not ready for the questions. the stares. the comments. i've faced enough alienation in my life, and i don't need more. i don't enjoy it. but i worship it: alienation. he gave me words, no, he took me by the neck, threw me against a wall, and shoved it down my throat. and i will worship it. do i tell her? should i wait until i'm older? would you lie to me? i run in these circles. its your choice: my diary is an open book and you can decide if you want to know everything about me. its a tv series, you can't miss an episode unless you want to be lost. i'm the only fan of this one, i may be the only one that fully understands my story. my references. i may be the only one to ever read my writing in its entirety. someday i want to help the kids. not because i am good at comforting, but because i can show them there is hope for the future. i want to be what i've never had. growing up is terrifying, and all i see are unhappy adults. not just you, mom. its everyone. everyone's miserable. i can't spend the rest of my life wandering dead mall halls, sunny "self care days" drag on for years, and before you know it, i've wasted my life on never growing up. they tell me to be a kid now. i'm already feeling the stress of someone far older than me. and all i can do about it is lay idle in bed. she says i'm depressed. its not something i'm new to, but its something i'm beginning to fully realize the extent of its ass kicking abilities. showering isn't a chore for everyone. getting out of bed isn't dreadful for everyone. friends aren't terrible. i miss that glorious time when i loved my friends. now it feels like haven't been loved in years: i don't know what it is with you and the joy you suck out of my life all while making me think you're the best thing thats ever happened to me. don't feel sorry for me, i've never been better. i feel exhausted just getting out of bed and crossing my bedroom. i don't know how i'm still functional. i'm barely keeping it together. but maybe someday i'll be something. maybe i'll look back on this and think: realize: i'm delusional. the most beautiful thing ever is how these words withstand the years of seasons changing, wind battering the shit out of me, golden, heat, sub-zero. these are just glimpses of feelings turned thoughts turned words. maybe this is who i really am. thirty years from now i'll be on the same hamster wheel in my head, running in these same circles. peace: is a boat on the atlantic ocean. 50°f. overcast day. me and kafka ride up the shore, canadian water. back home theres vinyls. stonewall. silence. but for now i'm a---

i find its a lot easier to understand my window of tolerance nowadays than i ever have before. i think its funny: i can look back and see when i was thinking rationally rather than when i wasn't. and its all thanks to different circumstances. being overwhelmed isn't an excuse to be an asshole, however, being overwhelmed is an excuse to be an asshole. honestly, i'm transcribing every word in my head as it comes. and you eat this shit right up. god, am i a disillusioned rockstar already? god, i'm so tired. god, are you real? rocks and stars, hell, the rockstars say you aren't. someone outta put a bullet in his head. for now i'm twenty two twenty twenty two twenty twenty two twenty twenty two twenty and its only a matter of time before you're crossing country borders to run from what you're doing. soon everyone will know. you go against all the ethos, pathos, and logos, or maybe just ethics. its. a grey conversation.

“i love her,”

you do? those are words you threw out like candy at a parade until one day i noticed you stopped saying it back when i said it. did you know i had to force myself to say it? because i didn’t believe it, but it was easier to say it than to deal with the consequences of silence after you—

sometimes i find myself getting wound up about all that happened but i have to remember to take a step back. nothing about you has changed, she’s getting the same treatment as me. (it was shit,) and part of me wants to cover her ears and eyes but i don’t know what good that would do when the chemicals are already doing it. but maybe an absence of it would force her to stop and think. but even then it would take months for it to clear out, so there’s nothing i can do because i can guarantee you, nothing will get through to her.

i’d like to be there to pick up the broken pieces. i can’t put them back together, but i can let her know it was okay, it was an ugly vase anyway. the sentimental value will eventually fade away and you won’t even remember anymore. we’re too young, do you understand what you’re doing to her? this is manipulation, this is being taken advantage of, but you don’t even realize it.

be pissed at me all you want, but all around this is pathetic. what brings you here? the same reason as me?

caretaking and grief (i’m the victim, i’m the saint)

jumpy jittery like i have really bad anxiety, shaking and feeling weak like i have low blood sugar. i’m drinking milk tea, 268 calories. what a specific number. 55g carbs. can’t imagine i have low blood sugar. but maybe its something else, like the first three drags off a cigarette, the first three i’ve had in a few days. i’m not supposed to smoke on these meds, i wonder what high blood pressure feels like. i just wanna go for a walk and feel stupid dizzy, stupid head spins. but i’ve got to go to class. my lips bleed when i speak, they’re so chapped. and my kidneys are in agony, i don’t remember the last time i had more than a sip of water (just to down my pills).

but maybe its something else completely.

i woke up this morning to a winter wonderland snow globe scene outside my window. there’s a tv in front of my bed now. new old clothes in my closet. i will not remember how they got here until a few hours later. and my mother walks in, asks where the usb is. i will not remember why she needs it until a few hours later. she goes into her office, and i turn on this new old tv. i’m still figuring out how to connect my phone, or what i should even watch. but my mother comes back in with tears in her eyes and asks me to test the usb. i will not remember what i am supposed to be testing until few hours later. the snow isn’t letting up so i better get going. roads are slick, car is light, car starts slipping, i slow down. i make it to campus without crashing. i’m frigid on .4 of my walk, i cut through a building, make it to class. i’m so distracted, i barely take notes.

i walk down three flights of stairs. take a right, out the back door. my legs feel shaky, like i may buckle and fall down, down, down, two blocks until my next building, where i climb up another three flights of stairs. it's bright white in here, probably painted within the past year. the stairwell reeks of fresh paint. at the top of these stairs is a waiting room. no one hardly comes up here.  there’s three massive paned windows, and there’s my beautiful snow globe scene. its the shitty type of scene my grandmother would take a picture of and cherish. i start to grab my phone to send her a picture,

and my body goes cold.

she’s dead, remember?

its only been a few days and i’ve been,,,,, i’ve been gone. i don’t think i’ve had a single thought in my head since wednesday after 10:45am. and i’ve been running nonstop. i listened to you screaming for the last eight hours of your life. and i never got to say goodbye. i don’t think i ever would have. i would always tell you, “i’ll see you when i’m back tomorrow,” but this time there was no tomorrow. you were still breathing fine when i left you. sure it was slow, almost erratic, and in so much pain. i remember the last time i hugged you. you weren’t speaking anymore, but you had enough in you to gently squeeze me when i reached down to hug you. and the last thing you told me was that you loved me, but that was far before you hugged me. i miss you already. today i snapped a picture of that window scene and texted it to you, knowing fully well my mother had your phone. and i started to cry. people saw me, i know they did, but they must understand. everyone’s dealt with death. and if they haven't, they will. my god, i miss you already. god is a little bastard, the universe know exactly what it was doing to spark this chain reaction of events that ended in bittersweet memories of seventeenths and weekend trips to a clinical spare bedroom. its only been four days, is your body even cold yet? i’ve been told you don’t even look like you in the casket. they say you look good but its nothing like you. i want to see you again but i guess all we get is body that once possessed you. i wish this, i wish that.

today i watched them open the casket to reveal your deflated hands, sunken in eyes, skin i could (pull just like clay). gums sewn shut. body drained and pumped with chemicals. your once yellow skin turned “normal,” i don’t want to look, this isn’t you. i don't want your face in my memories to replaced with this lifeless thing in a rented casket. i don’t remember other bodies looking as dead as yours did. but now you’re being incinerated in some oven, mixing ashes with remnants of someone else’s loved ones and past pets. today it maybe started to feel final. it came over me for a second or two, tears started to well up, but the antidepressants kicked in and worked their magic. i don’t feel real, i don’t feel like this is really me. not really you.

i was never going to say goodbye. i expected you to live forever, that was the expectation everyone had in mind. and no one had time to grieve. there’s a difference between watching someone die over the course of six weeks, and watching someone slowly lose themselves over the course of twelve years. three years on hospice. my name is cathy, my name is ann, my name was everyone but who i am. i have four dogs in a world i do not live in. we’re at the park in a bedroom. there’s these really good orange towels in the laundry room. and now her apartment is collecting dust while we wait for the heartlessness of a judge to hear us out. like their first day on earth has never happened, yet they have eight years of law school programmed into their tiny little baby brains. but besides the point, i miss you but i don’t know if this is really happening or not. and it doesn’t hurt until i’m alone, or with people. so it really all hurt but doesn’t hurt. and no one knew what to expect.

today i watched them put your rented casket in a silver hearse. bells ring. it snows. i notice its a cadillac, with a leather exterior. where does one find things like this? and what happens if a hearse crashes into an ambulance? and what if they all die? what’s then? i try not to think of all things that could possibly go wrong, ever. the bells switch from the hourly tune, to background noise to send her off. who thinks of these things, and who controls it? the funeral director smiles and tells us to go inside, enjoy the catered meal my family put together and payed for.

none of this feels right, none of this feels real, but i doubt it ever will, unless i am in the industry of loss.