i was thinking today. sitting cross legged on my coarse carpet sifting through old poems. old prose. old thoughts and words and rhymes. i was thinking about why it was so much easier then. why it is so difficult now.
i used to have this sort of dickinsonian naivety. uninhibited in my innocence. crisp white sheets. and when things happened. bad bad things. i filed them as insignificant and tucked them away. washed. pressed. folded. clean again.
i cannot pinpoint the turning point. but i know it is like that moment. that moment when the first boy breaks your heart. one that was not worthy of you to begin with (and i mean truly, truly unworthy.) and in your depravity you know that if he called you, you would rush to his doorstop. you would put your little head into his horrible chest. and you would beg forgiveness for things you did. not. do.
i find no poetry in moments so pathetic.
perhaps this is why dickinson never left her house.