Welcome To My Bed

Start angry, end mad.

First off, time penalties aside, I could've tied for a place in the semis of the Worcester slam team tonight. But I'm glad I didn't. There's so much pressure in an existence like that. Secondly, Hampshire is more than well on its way to becoming a National Slam venue, and if that happens for real, in time for the big event in Madison, WI this August, then I am most likely grabbing an apartment in some little warm out-of-the-way place with three of my favorite guys ever. We're thinking Omaha (because it's cheap) or some nowhere beach town in NorCal that takes down their roadsigns every year because they want to stay anonymous. Something I've always wanted, to be an anonymous eighteen year old poet living in a world that breaks her heart daily but never for any reason other than the fact that it's beautiful. Never because of actual tangible love. My dry-erase board reads "Well at least it makes for a great fishing story -- thanks for letting me be the one that got away."

For all the confessional pieces that I write, I have never really had my heart broken, and even though I'm aware that I am young and have plenty of time to be fucked over in terms of relationships, I am beginning to wonder what it feels like. Granted, I have broken my own heart over things in the past, but self-inflicted pain is a very different sort than the kind that comes from what is going on outside. I wonder, more often than not what things would be like if my chapbook didn't read as "Welcome to My Bed", but "Welcome to the Laundry List of People Who I Cry Myself to Sleep Over." Whereas it is somewhat exciting to be able to write in a detached way about the people I let kiss me, it would be much more successful, visceral, honest, etc. to be able to write about the reason that I have suitcases full of lives that I don't want to talk about all that candidly. But then, maybe that's just.

I got into a tickle fight tonight about a pair of right gloves. I think my toes may have frostbite from this New England winter and the fact that I refuse to wear socks with my boots because I never think about such things as the outdoor temperature while radiator is raping my throat and I am trying to put together a set list of pieces that will score well in the qualifiers. I almost made it this time. I am so very close to being young and talented. I can taste it. It is like cigarette smoke that tastes like pizza or pizza that tastes like cigarette smoke, one of the two. Or maybe that's just my dinner and my addictions jockeying for my attention. It is fa too late at night/early in the morning to debate such things.

I have a book to sew and a paper on Tolstoy to write. Sometime it's easy to forget that I am nearing the end of my first semester of college, maybe because I go to hippie school, or maybe just because I spend the better part of my time driving around Massachusetts with my friends, raiding all the notable open mics. I should do an independent study on slam poetry. If we were to get grades here, I'm sure it would warrant an A.