Emotional Pornography

This is not the post I had originally planned to offer you today, but it's the one you get because life will insist on happening. I've been suffocated by feelings recently in an increasingly untenable way, sad anxious tired alone overwhelmed repeating on an endless loop. The worst kind of grab bag. And, on top of this, I've finally managed to force myself to start working on this house in earnest, which involves so much laundry it should be illegal, sorting, hanging, folding, washing dishes, vacuuming, scrubbing, organizing, ad infinitum.

You see the problem here. If I try to write an actual post, it will just keep devolving into strings of disconnected words because I simply don't have the capacity for anything else. And so, instead of that, I'm going to share with you some poems. I wouldn't say they're my best work, but some of them are so deeply personal that posting them feels almost pornographic. Emotional pornography. They're not all from the same time period, or about the same person, but as you might notice, they roughly follow the same theme. I am nothing if not consistent. And they all share the quality of being work I will likely never get published, which is why they're appearing here instead. I trust the readers of this newsletter to be able to meet me where I'm at, or where I was when I wrote them, and see what I was going for even if the execution is a little messy. Next week I'll write an actual new thing. Thank you for bearing with me.