I have so many photos and poems coming up! I have 80 more poems to edit. Additionally, I have tons of photos I want to post. On top of that, I have some paintings to post. I am going to get this all scheduled out.
Creativity has been sliding through my body like a pipe cleaner through a drain, narrow, dirty. Although I have not actually felt consistently normal, my creativity has been high as long as it is something I can do in private. I hate that I have the magazine at a stand still. I have more to publish and rejection notices as well. I am getting anxiety about posting. My mind has been absent lately. If I make a mistake on here, it doesn’t matter. If I make a mistake with someone’s story or poem, that matters.
My period of heightened introversion is good for me. I’ve been lonely, but I’ve been producing. I will be traveling soon, and I want to do a lot before then.
My shoes are made of china,
the white and blue decorating
my spectral feet
like moon shadows.
Everywhere I have ever walked
has been coated in bone or glass.
I avoid mirrors.
They show me all my thoroughfares,
and all but one are cruel.
The last is frightened.
Little by little,
my feet bleed.