Why haven’t I been writing?

I’ve been stressing out over faulty zippers.

Finding moth bites from unfinished projects. 

Lack of human contact puncturing me with a sharp awl.

Filling in the pinholes and entry wounds with clothes and jewelry. 

My words are locked up for crimes they didn’t commit.

The law has never been on my side. 

Since September, I’m doing what any desperate person does —

Put too much product on my face for ten-minute interactions.

Getting plowed with “cute,” “sweet,” “stylish.”

Before money goes into the business owner’s hand.

I credit my mother for my face every time.

If not, I immediately compare/contrast my body to my sister’s.

There’s a photo. Proof that I’m the elephant to her gazelle.

It dates back from when grunge became mainstream.
Sunflower hats. Floral dresses.

She was holding my brim back while I was already tipping it upwards like a prop.

Classic case of a trained actor doing what a background artist can’t.

Which reminds me…

…I talked at the man giving me a ride to work. 

I pontificated as if I was the guest on a radio show.

Rambled about what drove me away from acting. 

How it’s all about the way you look. 

Prattled on as a drunk teenager would.

A shame that I was almost forty. Stone cold sober at 9 AM. 

“I wanted to be a character. The party goer. The dead nurse. Zombie. Prostitute in hot pants and metallic heels.”

Blamed it on the coffee. He told me that it was alright. 

It wasn’t. 

I was spilling out confessions for the sake of doing so.

If I lost stars, it was only fair.

Should have saved the spewing for my journal.

The pages have since banned together to keep me out.

They won’t grant me access until I meet their demands. 

They’re asking for better elements. Real imagery. Crisp sentences.

They want the bold colors that I should be adding to my small stack of collages.

In fact, they said no more collaging.

I need to focus on solutions. 

Stop thinking with a television brain.

One-liners, swinging doors, the rights to rock songs.

It doesn’t matter that some of the pieces are going to my lover. Or the friend who I never met in person.

Some of the collages are meant to be paired with my summer writing.

(The self-indulgence that no one would publish.)

The pages ordered me to put the scissors away. 

Penance for what I do to my audience. 

I drive viewers to pray for blades in their eyes.

I argue that nothing has been shaping up the way that it’s supposed to.

A “for now.” Not a “forever.”

The work will get better by taking time and giving distance.

What does that even mean?

My favorite instructor would sketch wagon wheels in graphite that read,

“Should this end here?”

Whether he gave me an A or not, it was clear. I could do so much more.

Hit the earth hard enough to stop the flooding. 

Alas, here I am.

Opening gates of fiction or fuck that I don’t know how to close instead.

My strict parent voice reminds me that creativity is but childish wanting. 

It seeps out from the scars on my arm.

A stern lecture.

“Young lady, you should want for nothing…

…Beautiful little house…

…Kitty cats…

…A job that you can easily pretend that you’re good at.”

The guilt trip drives me to collect more costumes.

Celine said that I could never put on a real show.

I’m too preoccupied with everyone’s costume. 

They were right on the crumbled money.

Their criticism was worth every dollar at the bottom of the tip jar.

I can tell a story. Alter a story. 

Every voice involved is a squawk from a painted bird.

Put body parts together to share what’s under their posh coats.

Drag them into tragedy.

Throw on layers. 

Find each section absent of depth. Dimension sucked away.

There’s a patterned coat from one of my recent splurges.

The roses on its body called my name. 

Its yellow borders wanted me to sell out. Make an effort to turn my heroine into that girl. 

Trend setter. Billboard babe. The main character’s wild friend.

Fitting that they’re shaped like store-bought chains.

I’m going to stick black pins in them. 

Slide as many as I can in for everything that I can’t say. 

I work in a family environment now.

Go home to correct every action from my days as the bad family member.

Bite my tongue for every stanza directed at the dead.

French kiss a loose saint who wakes me up at dawn.

She keeps me on a tight schedule. 

Deterring from order is a choice to fail.

She reminds me that I need to do whatever I can in my power to please those who hold power over my filthy crown.

That’s not a bad plan.

However, such a lifestyle is not aligned with the reason why I’m here. 

Which is what?

That is to be revealed once I break into the asylum from the storm cellar.