let’s explore the idea of being an emotional whore:
mom and dad yelled at me today in the form of precautions—their never-waning warning to avoid emotional involvement.
sometimes, as soon as i finish a poem, i send it off to the critic of the month;
i sleep around in the form of sharing something
more sacred than my virginity—
in the form of melodies,
eager for approval—
even if it is to come from unsure obligation.
people who don’t understand what i say
will praise the horseshit that spills out
late at night.
after half imagined glasses of champagne,
after late night songs playing in
circuits of mellow remembrances,
after guards have been lowered and inhibitions dissolved,
when my pencil floats across with perfect scrawl, when my words and ends of lines
start to carelessly rhyme—
these are the thoughts i should keep to myself.
these are the thoughts i should sort out
before i share, the ones that beg for an edit
—but i like to share the most vulnerable
parts of myself out there
before i have accepted myself, i beg
of others for their applause.
i am emotionally enthralled with the idea of
this makes me an easy target for devastation
and this makes my artistic tragedy a
masterpiece that belongs to many.
take credit for my creation,
anyone who has participated in my heartbreak.
i know that you’re only interested with the
revenue of self-benefit.
so, go, with my soul and with yours—
everyone in my life lives twice,
immortalized in my words.
isn’t it nice to be remembered?
emotionally involved, which i swore never to be.