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The Ward: Oh my God, u r Amazing

Oh my God, u r Amazing.

Thank you always for you.

For all of your Selves - your Hells;

If it indeed plays out that

we can burn alive in more than one -

Let it conflag around us

for there is no other wound

I'd prefer to endure

Than the hot kiss of a Devil

who rents us a room;

Be it red-lit and ready for Rage;

I say Fuck to Repenting.

Our words are the aloe / our tongues the spit

that can seduce a million demons in one lick -

When God is ready for us, sound the alarm

I'm still waiting for Him / to donate alms

I'm gonna settle down

amidst all the tests / analyzations -

Let me see that Rorschach:

it looks an awful lot like me

In profile, I'm a real beauty ~

Might I suggest a doppleganger of Ye ~

and I'm not embarrassed to say,

The crazy ones make me hottest to this day -

so let's stay put, Whaddyasay?

My dad was Chief Psych when I waltzed about the Ward

how's that for a test,

- not sure how my therapy went

since my pain was integral to one Honest Irishman.

I digress Sugar,

Bring that Inpatient Portfolio up in here

I'm gonna deduce the shit out of Her

And still leave some for supper-

all Dante, Gay-folk and Witches invited.

Just no Jesus Thumpers;

please, no Shrinks.

Only got room for me and you, crazy style...

so Baby-Doll, don't you blink.

--- first seen at Occulum, 2017

I’ve been thinking a lot about how


How---I am not my mental illness.

How I am really scared of Pensacola Girls coming out right now and people in my town will read it and my family will read it and I am terrified of what they will think of me.

It makes me want to hide. Run away and hide.

But I’ve been doing that my entire life.

Feeling guilty and ashamed and hating myself for the bad things which happened to me, and then in turn, the self-destructive behavior I did for years trying to cope and wash away the pain of sexual abuse.

When I stop and think - really think = I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t make someone hurt me…

I didn’t mean to hurt other people with my alcoholism…

So, why do I feel embarrassed and ashamed of my poems. If they tell the story of someone else hurting me? If they tell the story of how I tried to survive afterwards?

So - fuck it.

I’m done with that. I don’t want to apologize for my art. I don’t want to be ashamed. I didn’t ask for an older man to assault me. I didn’t ask to be mistreated and touched inappropriately. Been made to feel ugly, fat, useless, hideous…bullied teased... toyed with, laughed at.

Fuck that. I’m done.

Here is my art. Here is my face. Here is my body, beautiful and scarred and tormented and loving and sexual. Here is my brain. Here is m beautiful y voice --- my bad-ass angry tender insane and brilliant words bubbling out of me like a volcano exploding.

I am amazing. U r amazing. OMG we r amazing….

Write your words and be proud. Make your art. Share it, or not. It’s yours…

It’s your beauty and your pain. Yours...

Look world --- I am done with being quiet and afraid.

So here come my words…. <3

With all my love, Eli