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I am not this anxiety. I am not depression. I am not this body that I hate. I am not this face that I find so disgusting. I am mind. I am thinking. I am thought after thought after thought in a moment. I am the intellectual equivalent of an optical illusion. I will never stop shifting in and out of focus. You will never completely know me. I will never fully see you. I can never be naked before you. I can never feel inside you all the way. We will always be distant. We will always be smoke and ashes. I want you so much.
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I guess both of these are you, and I have read so much of what you write and I want to say that it appears that your shrink is taking you for a ride.
It’s like you are in love with your misery. That is your muse. I find myself getting annoyed at you and I do not even know you.
Thank you for reading “so much of what I write.” I appreciate it. –Tom Hardie
I do not press my fingers across my mouth,
I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,
Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.
I believe in the flesh and the appetites,
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from,
The scent of these armpits aroma finer than prayer,
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.
If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it,
Translucent mold of me it shall be you!
Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!
Firm masculine colter it shall be you!
Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!
You my rich blood! you milky stream pale strippings of my life!
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!
you make me feel like I am being talked to in all your writing