Epifunnies


good god woman, but you are a bore, sometimes, and I’m lauging at you! 😛 better get used to it, looks like I’m here to stay, just hear me out:

Look, just promise me you won’t write a poem about a boy for the next five months* because for goodness sake, they may be good (the poems), but you can’t take them seriously (the boys, even if they are good, sometimes, and actually my god MAYBE you take them seriously BECAUSE your poems are good – I just blew your fucking mind, didn’t I? Your muse is pain! manpain! so here’s the lesson: move from muse to amusement)

Girl, you’re good at writing men and meeting boys, and that’s because you’re twenty-five.

( *entirely arbitrary number. Like the number five on your keyboard no longer functioning, just go without! And start going with it. and getting with it. and getting it together.)

but here’s what I’m saying: what is your poetry if it doesn’t centre you, girl?
(An objectifying tool of the patriarchy, you answer, deadpan, but there’s a smile, I see it, oh I see it!)

christ, a poem (at least one) for every dude you’ve been with, and what
about the rich days and richer nights 😉 you’ve had to yourself?!

for shame! (but also mostly for absurd, and cackling, laughter)

Moult already, shed shed shed, your black hair,
yes it’s thinning, yes it needs coconut oil, yes
you’ve bled, bled bled enough for enough spells for enough lifetimes (1)
your teeth are shifting because you never wear your retainer, and
your parents are worried it’ll turn into your grandmother’s
mouth, and yes, maybe it will: does that terrify you – the woman
who learned languages on her own, who drove a car at your age
now, when you take the USELESS TTC EVERYWHERE, and yes,
who came close to what you came to close to too,

and yes, you will be the most content at every stage of your life
this is how you cast a spell girl, watch:  w, i, t, c, h, is what you are
And this is how you spell power, h, o, p, e and
this is what it means to be carefree, which you kept misspelling a, l, o, o, f,
when you should have been spelling happiness, p, e, a, c, e.

there is so much happiness outside
of being loved by someone, asshat
or not, haha life, girl goes on, inside there’s happiness
or not!  girl, why did it take you so
effing long
to figure this out?!

this poem is shit, it’s not even a poem,
it’s badly written but! it’s making you smile
and for once, let that be the thing that counts,
the thing that matters, the thing that stays a while
long enough to write because that’s how you measure worth,
isn’t it? – in words, so here.

haha see that? This poem is telling you to smile*
and you better listen to it, me, I mean –

*oh I went there, girl. I so went there, what are you going to
do about it, exactly? Hah!
because you’re already laughing
at yourself! in a coffee shop – see!

And there is no heartache poem worth writing
anymore if it doesn’t do that. Your imagination
is rusty, and your imagery was perfect(ly violent), because poetry
was just an outlet, but it could be so much more – you’ve made
a strange comfort and a stranger beauty (and strangers’ smiles)
out of your art, and I’m not saying it doesn’t captivate when it cuts,
but that it’s still, at the end of the day, art out of your pain,
and no one said cutting didn’t feel better in the moment
but how much catharsis can scar tissue provide  – or take?

yes, it was necessary then, and sometimes now, but you know?
there is a skin you have that needs to moult. Haha there’s nothing
left to cut – but of course, all of it off! and it won’t be raw inside and under,
I promise (I’m kidding, oh god, girl you are so naive, too damn
trusting, I can’t promise you any damn thing, god knows I’ve tried
for twenty-five years! but I am you, but (and?) carefree,  don’t take me
too seriously, but girl take this seriously because:)
girl? it’s time.

It’s time to grow.

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