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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


03.17.23


On Wednesday a man threatened the husband over the phone, shouting "Where are you? Where are you?! WHERE ARE YOU NOW?!" The next day I left behind my phone and bank card in the car when the husband dropped me off in Sligo, and I walked around the town feeling a little lost.

At least I looked immaculate: rumpled only in the mind. 15 degrees, so I could wear a light trench coat all day. I could burn my duffel coat, jumpers, and jeans, I’m so sick of them.

//

Last night I couldn’t sleep, reviewing the past over and over again. Didn’t it seem, as the shadows closed in, that my life has been a cascading series of low-burning disasters? Whenever I thought things would get orderly, something would happen to show the lie of it. But perhaps life is generally chaotic and overwhelming, for most people except the very privileged—I think of my friend I met on the street yesterday, out on a walk with his minder, a momentary break from the mental ward. The only thing I can do is to just get on with it, and make peace with what I can't control.

//

Anyways, one piece of good news this week: a poem of mine was accepted by an online journal. I was of course delighted, but also a little ashamed, already. Poetry —at least my poetry—feels like it comes from a very intimate part of my self, and there’s always the terror that what is revealed is very ugly and clumsy and intemperate indeed.




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