perfectionism kills
it kills creativity
it kills enthusiasm
it kills hope
and it kills souls
[if only my own words had any impact
on the chemicals in my brain that scream
‘that is true for everyone BUT you —
you are the one person for whom
perfectionism matters
MORE, it is
LIFE
OR
DEATH
and you MUST BE PERFECT
to survive…’]
corrections
corrections
corrections
that’s all my brain does
it leads me forward to the point of
red-pen markings on
drafts long done
i wish i could just let it all be
not see the typos in friends’ texts
or my own poetry
or anything really
when i understand the meaning
and the world is itself is a liminal space
we’re all just visiting
just trying to make it through the day
why does my mind turn into the ultimate grammar-nazi
when we all know [or knew] that the nazis
are always
the bad guys
i’d rather be a grammar anarchist
a grammar socialist
at least grammar neutralist
but no, my brain functions in rules
[though i suspect my spirit is made of chaos]
and i just want to scream at myself
“WHYYY???”
[but i think we’re probably at least mildly aware of the why—
it’s the
trauma]
Annee
and Jini
and Lynnette
and Jane
each of you raised me
in your own way
and i still ache for you
every
single
day
as fall approaches
but isn’t quite here
not yet
not yet
the memories of late summers past
invades my mind
sans consent
[do flashbacks ever ask?]
and no matter how stable
and lovely
and mine
my life is today
i keep seeing
loss
upon loss
upon lost trust
upon that feeling of any control in life
fleeting though it may have been
stolen in an instant
and this current administration
certainly doesn’t help this
weird ptsd i’ve found myself in
everything seems to be
culminating in something
and i continue to avoid all emotions and memories
until absolutely
necessary
everything in my life
seems to be
on delayed reaction time —
processing traumatic events/
pain responses to any injury/
excitement and anxiety responses/
processing temperature changes in my body/
even my damn tarot cards seem
a little too far away from the reading
to the event they foretold
to be anything less than
delayed
[but, i suppose, that’s just how my body/soul
plays this little life game]
“meanwhile
back on the farm…”
why do singular lessons stand out to me
when whole years disappear
in my sieve of a memory?
i can barely remember the good times
and only moments of the bad
and probably just what i made monologues of memories
is what still comes back to me
even after i’ve long since let go of that story in my repertoire
[what would it be like to have the memory
i was born with, instead of the memory
i was traumatized to have?]
are these truly my only two states?
so invigorated
because of immediate trauma
and helping my community
and working so well
in crisis
and
depressed and sullen and scared
and just hunkering down
for nap after sleep after nap
until i don’t know where the years went?
i want something
in
between
i feel like i have
whatever’s opposite of taking things
for granted
like i hold things as too precious
so as to prepare myself for the day
they are gone
[neither of these approaches
really help with
living in the moment though]
a memory
failing me
at every opportunity
or
is it protecting me?
is it saving me from the agony
of solid knowledge
and pain?
because
isn’t that what a trauma response is?
just the brain and/or body
trying their hardest
to save the heart
from hurt?
does anyone else
treat this life like a dress rehearsal,
like a rough draft,
like some sort of practice run
and keep, in their minds,
a running track of all their regrets
so that when it comes time
to actually perform/publish/play
‘for real’
they can do
life
‘right’
?
(or is that just my trauma response?)
kipventures 