January 2004 / Volume Five / Issue One
Linda Wandt
Manic. Mad. Wound.

Sometimes I make tea.
Lemon, with too much honey,
or peppermint cause I like
the way it makes my mouth tingle.
More often now though,
I drink bourbon and coke.
Food shopping I wander down the drink isle
and wonder what goes best with vodka.
Lately shopping for groceries is the only time
I think about killing people.
But thatís only because Iím not working right now.

Last 6 months w/ out you have mostly
been silence
and the occasional
3 day high
& Iím still wound tight
like twine.
The kind that looks strong and sturdy
but hurts your hands
w/ itís thorns.
Iím used to taking care of everyone
but myself, &
have finally perfected
pushing the urge away, &
suicide has faded into that bluegrey blend.
Itís complicated things.
I thought we were all the same,
used to think everyone was out to get ya,
but that was just the streets talkín.
(Itís taken a long time
  to rub myself clean
  but I still havenít been able
  to get under the nails.)

Itís made much more
bearable
and much more confusing.

I swear
at any minute
Iím gonna fucking snapĖ
and so are you.

Dinner is
quiet.
Uncomfortable.

I only feel young when
I break my favorite paintbrush
on purpose
take razor to canvas
cut out her face
& nail it to the wall    alone.
Or when some guy in a bar
comes to flirt     his whole body
shadowing mine.
He thinks itís about ďtrickingĒ me
into fucking him.
I can change everything
but my face.
Return to January 2004