I may be an offspring of an ape or resultant of a tall tale to cover up a rape. Whatever. I am dead on the inside, my faith in the human race has died. My soul’s been sold out, my mate has left this coil; two was one now one is as fucking glum as a nun a none A ZERO.
( Yep the either or ^ is one and the same. I realised that after I wrote it but I’ll not be changing it. The pretences of a wannabe wordsmith these are not; these are the words of a tormented soul in their death throes. )
I learned a lot this past month and a bit and experienced emotions I’d only ever read about, I thought I understood, I felt I was able to comprehend and adequately empathise — I was a fucking agony aunt to the misfits that found solace in my company (I of course, I realise now, was the biggest misfit of them fucking all, walking tall and, downright delusional; a hardcore unwitting freak) — but I know now I knew fuck all then… these feelings, the feelings of love and the feelings of betrayal can never be understood unless you YOUR VERY SELF are ripped and gripped and totally fucking horsewhipped by them. I’ve been stripped, laid bare on the brimstone floor. The guilt trip is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before: the pain’s been driven right through my fucking cardio-cum-cognitive core. These ever preset emotions cloud ‘everything,’ they rip and claw and have turned positivity to utter destitution, golden summer light to tar black winter night: the future is now the past, plans of P A S have turned to perpetual heart wrenching nostalgia. There is nothing but nothingness. I can no longer kid myself, I can no longer even dream it all to be another way, hope’s been well and truly fucking had. All I had and all I lived for died the day you departed. I’ll reiterate, all I lived for died the day you departed. I’ll underscore my point once more: all I had and all that I’d lived for, died the day YOU departed from our ‘us.’
you might not have been my first love
but you were the love that made
all the other loves
— Oh Jay! This is true, it is so, so very true.
Milk and Honey (2014) is a collection of poetry and prose by Rupi Kaur. It is divided into four chapters, with each chapter serving a different purpose. Violence, abuse, love, loss and femininity are prevalent themes.
Critics have called Kaur’s work instapoetry (“instapoets” are poets who have risen to fame by using social media to leverage their work). It has also been described as easy and simply constructed. However, she has been credited with changing people’s views of poetry, by this simplistic style and telling things as they are. Moreover, and of critical import to the world of poems and poetry, John Maher, of Publishers Weekly, stated that while a 2015 survey reported a drop in poetry reading between 1992 and 2012, poetry sales figures doubled in 2017, in the years after Milk and Honey was published. As of 2019, 2.5 million copies have been sold and it was listed on The New York Times Best Seller list for more than 77 weeks.
people go but how they left always stays
— I am beseeching you.
i am hopelessly
a lover and
a dreamer and
that will be the
death of me
— This is me, this is so, so very me.
I shall end with the beginning:
why is it that when the story ends,
we begin to feel all of it