Katya

I am obsessed with Katherine Mansfield.

I am toying with the idea of having her name tattooed onto my body.

Or a patch of manuscript.

I'm reading book after book, and skipping the endings so she won't die.

Although of course, I know that she is dead.

"I would like to speak Russian with you". Some of the last words she wrote.

Russia called to her. She was in love with Chekhov.

She never made it home.

And they called her a liar. And a manipulator. And a plagiarist.

Her husband married a woman who looked like her.

And his second wife learned to write with Katherine's hands.

And when I think about it all, I feel sad.

But also --

--

she used to write when she couldn't find the rest of her sentence.

--

And so--

Tense

I am tense. And tired. And frustrated. And wound up so tightly I might scream, or stop breathing, or catch sight of myself making grotesque faces in the mirror, and recoil.
And I am tired, it has to be said twice. It's probably causing all the rest. I spent another night chasing sleep. It's so hard to lie there passively, with my eyes pinned shut, knowing that I can do nothing else to change it.
It, being my body's lack of ability to do something that is basic, instinctual, untaught and easy.
I felt so happy a month ago. And really I should feel the same way now. I've had a wonderful fortnight. I should be feeling content and happy in a slightly overindulged, gluttonous way. I've filled my mind with the most beautiful images. But they escape me.
I've lost my appetite.