I think some people start blogs with the intention of attracting fans and maybe they imagine someday they’ll be professional bloggers, which I actually was a few years ago. But I’ve decided this blog is going to have no intention whatsoever. Like everything else I do, I’m not sure why I’m doing it. I never know why I’m doing anything. It’s like I’ve just vomited up my life.
Here’s an ultra-depressing poem I wrote the other night. See, if I wanted to attract readers, I might try to do something funny or entertaining, but I’m giving you this because it’s real.
I always get calendars with baby animals on them, and
I flip the page on the calendar before the month is over,
to get further away from the heartache of losing you.
But today, it didn’t matter.
I knew it was the 30th.
And the tiny foxes couldn’t hide it.
9 months since your death.
I can’t/won’t/don’t want to
make some kind of pregnancy
gestation stupid sentimental reference
Except that I’m full of grief
And everything is swollen
From my eyes to my belly to my liver
I’ve got little beads on my wrist
And I’m praying, chanting, whispering
To shut up everything in my head
But all I can think is that last summer
I had no idea you’d be gone