Mary Karr, thank you for so eloquently portraying emotions and thoughts that so often plague my mind. Just a few of the countless that stuck out to me…
“Words warranted my devotion — not drugs, not boys. That’s why I clung to the myth that poetry could somehow magically still my scrambled innards.”
“But humming through me like a third rail was poetry, the myth that if I could shuffle the right words into the right order, I could get my story straight, write myself into an existence that included the sacred misfit poets whose pages had kept me company as a kid.”
“So a sheaf of dog-eared pages curling at the edges lies on my desk like dying roadkill.”
“I feel soldered to the bed, with cobwebs yards long grown from head to floor.”
“The timbre’s barely tolerable, for when Warren speaks to me, the airspace is sandpapered and abraded, spiked as a bondage collar. I can’t look at him without hearing some muffled verdict pounded out by my own heartbeat — guilty guilty guilty.”
That is all.