My book, No Competition Between Flowers, is available for purchase at amazon and barnes & noble
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also I’ve started keeping iPhone notes again of shit I’m writing and it’s wild
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if you don’t almost cry every time you listen to “retrograde” by maggie rogers
esp at the line “come out of the darkness”
then idk why you’re following me because that’s a WHOLE FUCKING MOOD
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been working on shit in therapy
aka shit I went through when I was knee-deep in writing
aka aka when this blog was my fucking lifeline
quite often, you all saved me. I was still really fucking sick and gross and fake and all of the other terrible things
but I was safe at a time that I couldn’t afford therapy/properly digest what was happening
I have a cute little tattoo over the scar I see the most
and I eat bread and cheese and don’t die
I am still working on falling in love without punishing myself
and sometimes, on a rare moment, I can still fucking write
this is a long way to say if you’ve been here for a while, you’re a fucking angel
and now, when I say I’m doing okay?
it’s the fucking truth
(and that shit is amazing)
(if you need it, here’s your sign to get help. it really does get better)
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lessons from 27
pain is a sunset, and some days you will sit in your room waiting for it. others, you will forget it exists. you will wake up in the darkness. you will be okay.
get a cat. or a dog. or a fucking fish. they will keep you on the ground. they will save you more than once.
it’s okay that you don’t write of pain and loss and suffering. it’s okay that your art is a gentle memory—a museum to visit.
you are not your sickness.
you are not your mistakes.
for fucks sake talk to a professional. take a break from said professional. drink two large glasses of red wine, send emails, and write her all of your secrets.
fall in love once a week. give people chances and forgiveness and kindness.
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I’m no longer interested in pain. it doesn’t inspire me, it doesn’t motivate me, I don’t think it’s a beautiful thing. I’ve spent too long making suffering a part of my personality
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the twist of a wrist
the iron and salt of it all.
how I have forgotten the years
but taste the anger.
She and I do not speak.
She and I do not meet.
there is no We in recovering.
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This blog, my writing, and my book all feel like past lives. How strange to think I was so sad. How strange to see pieces of myself cascaded across the internet.
#i am 26 and completely different than when i was 20 and dying#this is healthy#this has been an update#michellek#michellekpoems
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I have made you poetry.
You have made me a stranger.
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I look for the worst
parts of you
in everyone I meet
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hating myself took too much
energy
that I have decided to spend
in far more beautiful
ways
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I am trying not to apologize when it is a useless social tick
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Here’s an explanation (if you wanted one)
I easily haven’t written new material in 6 months, perhaps even a year. I got very busy with work and grad school that I completely lost the balance in my life. Art—and the pain that came with a lot of it—has been evading me.
So here I am, trying to come back. I am trying to figure out what kind of artist I am as a healthy, functioning adult.
So, we’re in this together. Let’s begin.
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And I have learned that
men who drag their feet
like matches
often find
women who will set themselves
on fire
just to taste the burn.
Michelle K., Ashes
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Excerpt from “Green Eyed” by Michelle K. (@michellekpoems)
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I have held
funerals
for every version of me
that did not survive.
I have prayed
for every last soul.
I have been
so many women
in such little time.
Michelle K., Souls.
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