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alone, i disperse
forgetting the shape of my body
the edges of my voice

closed under night’s huge glass


erin moure, from sheep’s vigil by a fervent person


erin moure, from sheep’s vigil by a fervent person

clutteraugust 2014

august 2014

It’s been months since I wanted to break out of my body. Okay, that’s a lie. But it’s been days. Days since I’ve felt static scorch underneath my skin, felt colours cutting into my eyes, had to explain that these aren’t metaphors. There are so many ways you can get used to living. I wonder if anyone else feels empty when they don’t have creatures clawing up through their throat. 

I don’t know what art is, or what okay is. I like to believe I know it when I feel it, but I’m not so sure I would. I think people expect me to be a lot more insightful than I am right now. I don’t think they take into account that boredom is stressful, and stress can shatter you like roots in concrete. Maybe I’m growing. But I don’t even know if I’m bored. I feel like a lot of different people, or a lot of aspects of different people, all trying to learn how to stand one another. 

It’s been days since I wanted to break out of my body. I’m watching the sunrise from the wrong side, but I did sleep. I’m not curling in corners or walking alone at 4 a.m. I’m not thinking of my friends talking about me in past tense. I listen to the murmur of the coffee maker, to the droplets of song from backyard birds. And I am not sure where I stand, but I am standing.

crooked blue lines

i took a photo of my face and saved it in a document
i changed the file from .JPG to .txt 
i wrote I DON’T NEED YOU TO LIKE ME into the body of the text of my face
until my face disappeared 

i am thinking about the summer
when i bought large bags of chips
and hid them around the house
i didn’t let myself eat them
but i wanted to own them
so no one else could eat them either

i had a feeling of not wanting to sleep again
and experienced migraines in two different countries
i threw up in a club and then passed out on the floor
the floor was very sticky
the lights seemed to make the room more dark
than if it had been a room without lights
i hadn’t been drinking 
so security let me come back in 
a half hour later

that night a man in a mcdonald’s told me
i was pretty enough to do anything with my life
and could even be a waitress

i consider this a good summer
i was very productive

i like these feelings: exercise, studying, being hungry, making lists
i like the thought that if i repeat this process
i will eventually be someone else

i feel that if i work hard enough
i will be able to leave my body
and leak into someone else’s ear
here i will take notes on this person
and how they process emotions
and sensory data
i will objectively compare this
with my own cognitive behavior
and present my findings at a conference
i will win awards
and have a paper to show to acquaintances
when they comment that i am acting strangely

i hate when i am upset and someone asks
"do you need more medication" 
instead of “what’s wrong”

i don’t know what’s wrong
but i appreciate being asked

i have no desire to join a religion
but sometimes i think of starting one
we would maximize fulfillment
through growing our own crops, poetry, a rigid timetable, and living far away from trains and cars
lately most people on transit seem to be injured or ill
i want to invite them to join my religion

i have a feeling of a brick 
suspended on a string from my clavicle
it is 1:16 in the afternoon
i feel like i am waiting to fall asleep
but it never happens

this: the latticework of roots beneath us. the smell of burning paper; veins that come together in our fingertips. stars burn holes in our lungs. this newspaper frozen to the sidewalk, words washing into asphalt.

please put your ear to my chest and hear the rain, these breaking branches. i want to open my ribs and press my heart to yours, to speak into you every meaning of red. i want to do the opposite of bleeding. put down the dagger, unbind our throats. we’ll cut a new path down the mountain. let the ram live.

i will breathe back the days. your skin unbroken. your spine has not learned to bend like an apology. you do not turn away from the sun. the branches that spill from your head have not filled you with dead roots, and every day you wake up knowing where and who you are. you do not swallow words like poison. you do not know the taste of poison.

you run against the white sky, through the black trees, and your body shakes with breath. this is still the first time. this is you and the sound the wind lifts through leaves, you and your hands that are not weapons. you and an ocean that is not an ending.

i want medicine that feels as good as crying. i want to break like a wave or a window, to fall all around you and not stop falling. in a shatter of droplets, i want to hold you, if you will let me.

last night i was sad and afraid

talk to me
i need conversation
to know i am here


streetlights fall through me
blood beats in my ears

eyelids fight closure
afraid when i wake up
i’ll still be me


a persistent ache in your lungs
you’ve never considered
worth of mentioning


i guess i like
living this way
or else why
do i keep coming back?


is there a word
for the loneliness
of being in your own skin
to your own heart

dark red feelings
in the pit of your stomach
pressure against your eyes

missing someone
but not knowing who


speaking to bus windows
so i don’t lose the words
i lose the words

i want to tear down the clouds
i want to burst from my skin
and dissolve

i am trying to talk to you
i am trying to sleep


the book i bought last year
(and haven’t looked at since)
warns to avoid thoughts like
"tomorrow will be a good day"
but it’s a different day
so that’s something


i spend too much money
on long distance texts
i leave the house and walk
until the sun rises
i listen to crows

i know this doesn’t
sound like trying

but i am


Happy National Poetry Month from this first grader:
We did the soft wind.We danst slowly. We swrld aroned.We danst soft.We lisin to the mozik.We danst to the mozik.We made personal space.


Happy National Poetry Month from this first grader:

We did the soft wind.
We danst slowly. We swrld aroned.
We danst soft.
We lisin to the mozik.
We danst to the mozik.
We made personal space.



so I walk for hours in the dark. Clamor of furniture, bruise over in watercolour. Is it manipulative to want? In computer light, I believe in spells like I believe in closeness, the rush of heat in ears. How landscape slows to hold you. Colours split crystal.

Steam rises from the pavement and I name it holy. My body flickers in sun, smells of ash and citrus. If this is my mouth, it frills static. 6 AM crumples. Seeps into elbows and knees, the drift of spine. Fold and unfold the same towel. Trees spread and edge the pressure of skin. Is this true or just something you believe? I ask if there is a difference. Try to explain being full of clouds. Is it manipulative to need? We have had this conversation before.

Touch hands to hands – over, over. Dreams about […] hurt. Sometimes my soul leaves my body. Some people naturally […] need […] less; how long has the kettle been screaming?

She says write what you feel. Close your eyes.

Light on empty space.

rain strikes glass
drop by drop
the road dissolves

damp paper rusts
on a telephone pole
lost dog
with blue eyes
colour stolen
by sun

corroded nails
of a stranger on the train
the scent of a spice
you can’t name
presses to your throat

google searches for cleansing spells
a murder two years ago
lines of poetry
you can’t remember
if you wrote

afraid of sleep
empty rooms and how
you no longer recoil
at pictures of pain

version of self

damp paper rusts
on telephone poles
lost dog
blue eyes