multipleentities

[multipleentities]

Every Time I Pass A Mirror I Look

poem by me, Josephine

2024

[multipleentities]

THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS TO LOVE

I WOULD LIKE THEM ALL

On June 27th I saw a sunburnt baby. I know this because I was surprised enough to write it down in my notes app. I wrote, “that baby has a sunburn and so does my nose”. Weird to me that someone let their baby burn. I’m pretty sure sun protection is one of the top rules about babies. 

I have a collection of hair ties given to me by other people. You know, you ask for one, put your hair up, and then completely forget. Most are traditional black or brown, and there’s one in bright blue. I can’t remember who I got it from, but I know they were special.

I have a hair tie Becca lent me the week we met. Her hair is still knotted around the joint in the covering. Her head was red then, then she switched to blonde, now back red. We were in my car watching a movie, I think it was our second date. 

On Monday July 29th, I was in Brooklyn at a Sidney Gish show with my friend Micaela. We went drinking first and bonded with strangers over Casamigos. (Tony from LA turned out to be a dick— go figure.) Thoroughly drunk in the pit of the venue, we met Griffin, who was alone and excited. After I realized I couldn’t finish the drink I had bought, I gave it to them. The three of us locked arms and sang the words to “Sin Triangle”. I asked for a hair tie. Micaela’s hair is short. Griffin handed me one with a smile. It’s the only one I’ve used for over a week. 

I went outside at some point, just to breathe. I met a beautiful girl at a red metal table. She offered me an oracle card and a drag of her cigarette. I read her a poem. 

I’m having an identity crisis again. I’ve been calling myself ‘Josephine’ so much that, for a split-second, I’m shocked when I hear ‘Josie’. I like Josephine though. Josie is middle school sad in leggings. She’s high school dumping sawdust out of ugly boots. She’s dropping out of college and abusing edible marijuana. 

Josephine is now and painting in her room. She’s grown up and brighter. She’s listening closely to a thunderstorm. 

If you read this, please call me Josephine. 

[multipleentities]

Today's Agenda

Apples, hatred, and the divine.

I eat a Cosmic Crisp apple with peanut butter almost every morning. I’m not sure I like hot coffee anymore. Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me. Today while listening to Florence + the Machine’s “Girls Against God”, a raindrop fell right on the tip of my nose.

“When I decided to wage holy war

It looked very much like staring at my bedroom floor

But, oh God, you're gonna get it

You'll be sorry that you messed with me”

August is always like this. A year ago this week I was working a shit job, grieving a hook-up, and getting high. Today I have no job, no grief, and haven’t smoked weed in five months. August is always staring at my bedroom floor. At least there’s rain.

Rain means bugs come up from earth and into my bedroom. I dislike centipedes. I dislike most creatures with more than four legs. Does not seem right. I’m having trouble crystallizing my point.

It’s easier to cut an apple standing up, though I often sit. Here are my steps for breakfast:

Press go on coffee machine

Wash apple

Cut apple in quarters

Collect coffee from machine

Add two aspartame packets to coffee

Cut core from apple quarter

Slice apple quarter in at least five pieces

Repeat steps six and seven for the other quarters

Milk in coffee (2%)

Get peanut butter

Enjoy

I wish I could say god will be sorry that it messed with me, but I haven’t been feeling much divinity these days. Eleven steps seems like a lot for breakfast, but I spread it out a bit. Takes less than ten minutes.

The last good day I had was Monday.

Tuesday was shit, Wednesday was shit, Thursday was shit. Today is Friday and also shit.

Divine intervention would be a welcome interruption. My apples are getting boring. My holy war is on the bedroom floor. I have nothing to hate these days, aside from myself. Self-hatred is tired anyway. It’s old news, a washed practice.

I must find another outlet for this hate. Though I guess it’s like, morally wrong to direct it towards other people. (Life is so impossible when I want to be joy.) I could hate people I know, celebrities, family, the concept of a Paul Mescal brand Brooklyn woman, but I’m trying to treat others how I’d like to be treated. Also a washed practice. Maybe I can hate persimmon or incense or plastic beads instead.

A few weeks back I drove out to write and be alone, as all annoying people do.

Here’s the draft:

I feel like sticking my hand into the garbage disposal I think it could chew me up and swallow me right I think that I’m thinking too much about me but what else is there to do inside an empty house? The problem always sticks around So what the fuck is my name again? I’m stuck at the top of the page and my feet are a feast for the mosquitos Home feels like a word in stone and that's just plain unfair I should camp the night in the bed of a pickup designed for murdering children I should start breaking my ankle again I should always turn it off

I haven’t looked at this poem since then. It is not good, but I think there is something to be said about swallowing right. I will ponder.

I went to CVS earlier, the uptown one. Bought nails and soap and hair ties. Used two coupons, it was great