in my third trimester of writing poetry

I had one of the first poems I ever wrote published in a new indie magazine and I wince everytime I read it.

For context, I had fully crashed because some dude couldn't find the energy in his thumbs to text me back about plans. His plans turned out to be going on a date with "some woman" who had "directly asked" him first. You could've said no. One no. Teehee forgot you were a live human that existed— but I digress. Sent a bunch of voice notes to my friends and was advised that maybe I should find a real hobby that wasn't a man. Look, I was a non-practicing hetreosexual for several years so the intensity of such human attachments, is sad if a little understandable.

My favourite fairytale was The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen — the original ending where she turns into sea foam, not the one where she goes a month long cruise with her dreamboat. I decided I really liked the idea of envisioning myself as a mercreature that disintegrates into a vat of acid.

I was getting sick of seeing reels about how every bad experience is an opportunity for growth. The therapy-speak is a form of psychological warfare where we aren't even able to feel bad. I am already a person, do I need more appendages to validate myself?

We're all shitty saplings people trample on but don't worry, you'll bounce back after being chewed out by a hungry caterpillar and sprayed with citrus oil to sear in the sun. Emotional damage is beautiful~

What I'm trying to say is sometimes, parts of you die and you do not need a life lesson out of it. There needs to be recognition of such grief instead of redirection or trivialisation. Ironically, I read this out loud at a poetry reading which somehow gave me the audacity to publish it.

Anyway, I do have fun writing about all the times I took things personally. There's no birth of a better self, just genuine human experiences.