We spoke of men as often as of poems

Post coitum tristesse, part 2   

(Anne Sexton)

I

"We spoke of men

as often as of poems.

We tried to legislate away

the need for love –

that backseat fuck

& death caressing you."

 – Erica Jong

ah, this side of paradise!

there's no comfort in the wise,

no comfort at all. I roll it up how I was

taught to, half cancer half plant,

wait around for the next one.

ever feel like a hooker? I'd asked her

once, waiting on a corner, fishing for a lighter.

no, but I feel like Sylvia Plath.

I had responded: can I be Anne Sexton?

it seemed right, that is, my severe rejection of emotions via denial, via wanting to tear out my hippocampus,

stomp on it, trying to forget every walk to every room and back, to every house and back.

she herself was severe, though, this friend, more sad in an intrinsical way, more dull and rotten than I, via bad chemistry, while I was just a

case of depressive charlatanism gone bad.

Right?

I searched for acceptance in every bed cover's crease and dollar bills I handed them to buy me smokes.

I searched for it, hands on me, and then before then I had searched for it while he asked what's wrong?

You need to tell me what's wrong!

I love you! You need to tell me! Are you ok?

You are funny if you think I responded.

I likened my staring state, I fixed it in my head as a piercing quixotically sad one, once.

My silence was a story in itself.

II

"You loved a man who spoke like greeting cards. 'He fucks me well but I can’t talk to him.'" – Erica Jong It was ultimately guilty,

this time removed from pleasure.

The whole situation, blows to the face

and little slaps of course,

I felt the need to send myself into

a sort of temporary sleep so I forgot

but then would wake up again

because that would mean they won

and this is why I concussed myself once.

He tells me he cares and it's not

that I don't believe him but

it's that I don't believe myself.

I apologize for my being a burden and

he asks me why.

I suppose I am used to it

and if I could stare at him

it would be the same old stare.

"We shared that awful need

to talk in bed.

Love wasn’t love

if we could only speak

in tongues."

– Erica Jong

this is about being schizophrenic, a rape victim, and depressed all at once Whoo #schizophrenia #recovery #rape

Anne Sexton