POETRY ON MEDIUM

My Euthanasia Blues

I’m a really bad writer. I don’t know if happy endings exist, and I don’t know how to end chapters.

I have had many bad and terrible encounters, but I always managed to surmount these mountains against all odds. I don’t see anything as insurmountable anymore because it seems like I did the hardest things a little too early.

I feel myself being blown by the wind in all directions, I feel the tides of the ocean pulling me into deepest depths, I feel the ground inviting me deep beneath, I feel the scorching heat burning me new skin

This way of being has blown my life through all possibilities, stripping everyone else away. It seems only I can ride the tide of chaos and infinite probabilities.

I have made peace with that. It makes me a bad writer, a disorganized human, confusing and complicated, but the only thing that pains me about this predicament is that I am alone in my complexity.

Perhaps this is the price I pay to be in union with the ebb and flow of life.

Ethel Cain — Crying During Sex