If you were to take my journals, diaries
the documents of my uncrowning youth,
to scan the morose pages,
those decrepit screams of angst,
You would find the stark deviations
of an unfocused mind.
You would find, in the margins
even in the most vividly depressed,
the most outrageously destructive of texts,
You would find, in the margins,
the doodle of a lopsided heart,
a crooked star,
a cartoon teddy bear.
Or maybe a young man’s name,
followed by a smiley face and two stick figures holding hands.
The words “poop”, “doggie”, and “woo!” are no doubt
inscribed in the blank spaces
of many a manuscript,
alongside garbled citations of Cobain or Grohl.
On truly lugubrious days, my signature, practised, remade, practised.
Dot the I? Loop the Y? Add the middle initial?
Even in my own mental moratoriums,
my suicidal havens,
I have brought along
goo-goo gaa-gaa moments of fluff,
the little bity silly things
that never fail to make me laugh,
make me smile a little,
even when the bathroom razor sings my name.
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