Not embarrassed. The other meaning. I don’t want to write anymore.
I want to throw away all the pens, send the ink back to the squids,
shred strips of paper into little tickertapes and throw them to the sparrows.
Fuck that black-printed ribbon, those rubbed-off Qs and Ps,
the ding-ding-ding at the end of the row. Fuck the pound of fingertips
into metal ovals. No one likes to hear paper crumble. It makes my teeth ache.
I want to eat all the apostrophes, suck the marrows out of exclamation points,
bide my time with the semi-colons. I’ll feed you these words, letter by letter,
a la carte. They don’t taste like anything, not even cardboard characters.
I want to cook hot chilies on a patio in a house of my own. Crack open that bottle
of absinthe, smoke that grey powder that doesn’t have a name. Let my ex-lovers write on my skin what is not a story, will never be a story, doesn’t even sound
like the shape of a vowel. Live a little. I want to harpoon whales for the candle
of their fat. See if snake oil makes my libido slither, legless and forked. Try my hand at tying ropes. Darning socks. Kissing knees of daughters I’ve never had.
I’ll burn everything when I go. Break my own spines with the sharpest quill.
Lay my body down beneath these dark clumps of ideas, these rotting scraps
of stories. Let the wild dogs of reason come and gnaw upon me.
I am feeling creatively burnt out. Who knew that it would only take 38 days of daily writing to feel wrung out?