why is it so hard to care
I did not know what these hands were for
before I fell in love with this whore
Day 7 (cont’d)
If you’re a poet take joy and sorrow in how the heavens won’t let you die before you finish your work.
Today I woke up in full sweat, covered in dirty, disheveled sheets. It smelled like stale sweat and cheap perfume. A cat jumped on my lap and purred next to my cheeks. Then it scratched my face. I stumbled my way into wherever the bathroom was or going to be and there, in the hallway, I saw her standing there:
"Where do you think you’re going?"
"Excuse me, but I think your cat made my face bleed."
"She likes you."
"Really." I paused and assessed the situation. "Who are you and why am I here?"
The woman in front of me, or girl I would presume, was a walking contradiction. She had her hair tight in a bun, wearing a loose fitting robe that still could not hide her shapely figure. She was thin and curved in all the right places, a sharp weapon against male desire and yet there she was, staring straight into my soul with her doe-like eyes, brown and tender. She had a soft face with soft features, except for her lips which had the natural tendency to curve itself in the most sinister manner whenever she loses herself in her work.
"Teresa. You can call me Sister Teresa."
Her voice was smooth but raspy, a tad mellow like aged wine but vibrant enough with a youthful pop like the sparkle of cheap raspberry champagne.
"Okay sister Teresa. Where in this nunnery can I find the appropriate gauze for my flesh wound?"
She laughed like a drunken queen.
"Oh, silly. This is a whorehouse."
This is a poem about a girl who saved my life:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You took me to bed
and gave me some food
Day 5 (cont’d)
Man oh man fuck this I don’t wanna die from sunblock
Fuck this pain sucks it sucks to suck
Fuck this im outie
I have been so thirsty I ate my sunblock.
I am now in so much pain I think I am about to die.
The worst part is that even with all this pain I still can’t write anything worth anything
but it’s okay I’m probably just going to die
and that’s okay because I’ll die a poet -
at least I’ll die for a cause