Louise Glück, From An Interview With Poet In Poets & Writers

Marsha P. Johnson marching in the Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade in 1977

‘something’s wrong’, a disability with no name.

i’ve spent almost two years trying to figure out the mystery diagnoses that have been ruining my life. every test, imaging and lab under the sun has come back normal, even when i know it’s not. we have ideas, but nothing concrete. i’ve lost almost 60 pounds without meaning to. everything hurts. and all of this is… exhausting. i doubt what i feel because i have nothing to call it, and i doubt its importance because it could always be worse. and i should be grateful that technically, nothing is wrong, but something IS wrong, and i don’t know what to do with that, either.

i’m not sure how this piece ended up the way it did; maybe my brain needed to make sense of everything in a way that makes no sense. sometimes the body is a broken doll is a mess is a horrible thing.

the thing about going to bed early is that it doesn't stop you from being awake at one am anyway. doctors dont tell you this

wait let me get on this level

if i’m ever brutally murdered and everyone feels like they need to do something productive in my memory, all i want is for you to pass legislation banning LED headlights in my name. regardless of how irrelevant it is to my murder. it’s relevant to my heart.

No time to explain, just get in

breaking the 66th seal. based off of cabanel’s ‘the fallen angel’.

what do you mean I can't control everything, why not

not really appreciating min-woo’s cunty behavior rn