Not a word to find

I’ve written the fragments out until they’ve become no more whole than before.

I’m feeling lost and uncertain. I need time and space, but then I don’t know what to do with it when I have it.

Stagnation is closing in, and the walls are too thick for me to scrape a hole through with my fingernails and crawl out into the open.

I used to write poems about bloody rooms, girls scratching at their walls until their fingernails bleed, leaving streaks and imprints, dripping, red and caked caked brown. My image life full of blood, but not true violence. Not a lashing out, an intentional hurting and cruelty, but visceral and veins. Lips bitten torn and other unintentionally self inflicted wounds.

I’m writing about two kinds of miscarriages in “Evelyn and May” : one intentional, and ( one unintentional. Of blood pooling out from wombs, and flowing along inner thighs. Love and loss encapsulated in a function of the body. May induces her loss because she knows she cannot have what it is she wants, and Evelyn chooses one loss and has another occur (sympathy miscarriage?).

I am unhappy with their story, I don’t know where it’s going, I don’t know if I like what I’m writing, and I haven’t touched the play since I was in the Magdalen islands. Somethings’s hitting too close to the bone. A vicarious autobiography that is factually untrue, but emotionally and subconsciously true?

I don’t know how all of the pieces fit together. I don’t know what I’m really trying to reveal, and I feel as though I’m at a point of tipping over into revelation that will either f push this play forward, or kill it completely.
T
I am not a writer. Most times I’m not even a person, or a woman, or a thing, or a creature. I fall into times of non-existence. I’m self absorbed and unsatisfied. I’m lonely and uninvolved and bitter. I don’t love anyone and will not let them love me. I’m desperate, and hate my desperation.

But I don’t feel sorry for myself. I never have. It’s just that I don’t understand. I really, really don’t understand, and it feels like everyone else does.

I don’t feel like myself, outside.
Exteriority and terror conflated.

I compromise myself in everything that I do.

I don’t want to be any part of this world.

I’m confused and unhappy and sick.

I can’t create beautiful things because destructions abilities have so much more force behind them. Beauty is alone and torn at all of the important seams. My stitch ripper is effective, but my finely threaded needle shakes in my hands, and my stitches are not strong enough to stay planted where I sew them.

My offerings will never be enough, and my blessings are burdened.

Why is everything so sad? I don’t know how to experience the world without a double glazed filter of grief. Does it ever change? Will I ever smile truly, proud of the moment I find myself in? Shoulders back and delighted, laughter flowing past my heart?

I don’t know how to feel all of this. I don’t know why I’m expected to, why I have, why the struggle is full of so much struggle. Why life is such a fight, when I’m not meant to be a fighter.

I don’t know how to stop editing myself. My tongue is numb and I can’t say anything that reverberates beyond my hollow mouth. I am not an appropriate being. My sanity, my freedom. Whose life am I living?

How much grieving can be done in saying goodbye to the girl and young woman that I never was, and never will be able to be?

Why am I alone in the face of so much darkness and despair? I have no touch of reassurance. I’m troubled and unconsoled.
Why do I even try for words? Why do I even try to reach out, forcing my inky blueprint into the organized and delicate lives of others who have no need of inkstained fingers and lips. My hands are not enough to hold anything. My backbone is fine cartilage, flexible and unstable. My heart flutters wildly, as strange and untranslatable as the speech I’ve never learned to speak. I can’t even walk properly, my feet won’t touch the ground, I can’t feel myself on the ground, just skimming, slipping over. A drift with no commitment.
What am I even looking for?