The New Yorker
I submitted some of my poems to The New Yorker. I must like pain. When I was a child, I would thread needles through tissue-thin layers of my skin and marvel at my minor injuries, my new little baggies of flesh that hung from my fingertips. Not much has changed, I see, as I stare at my rejection letters with a similar gross curiosity. I’m not thinking about it too-too much, I tell myself. I’m rubbing my fingers together over where they were once scarred from sewing needles that ate my body like metal termites. I suppose my skin went “back to normal,” but I have no clear memory of what that normal was and who knows if normal is ever inherently good anyway. I’m tired of trying to figure things like that out. We all once had fun with philosophy and then it cracked and shriveled, like a house plant without a window. I own a book on walking through these kinds of forests that don’t have paths. Forests as dark as the insides of our organs. It has something to do with a metaphorical trailblazing and I’m over it. I am struggling to turn its pages with my fingers; they are tapping on the armrest. I am impatiently waiting to receive my rejection from the New Yorker.
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