It is so hard to keep a poem going. I am writing this poem – on this page, a different poem than the one on the last page – not because I have to but because I want to tell you something about me. Please do not think this is a cry for help. My face feels like / little bugs. It's poetic, really. I experience this. Pain is not poetic, I mean the part about the bugs. I can really relate to these people on the internet who think there is something wrong with them. I want to be relatable but I know I am so unpalatable. Please forgive me. 

people but what do I have to say that matters if anything to say at all. Some excerpts from the art criticism: "When I taught at Parsons in the 90s, I supervised undergrads like her – the Jenny Holzer wannabes from Boca Raton. Girls whose lives depend on a daily dose of Zoloft. I used to tell my students this: so much art exists in the world. The digital age is one of sensory overload. Please, I beg – do not contribute to the wealth of self-indulgent artwork. A clichéd wealth of clutter to hide and conceal in a diary entry." This isn't about pity – you're thinking too hard. I promise you.


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