L. V., Translating Conversations With You Into Poetry

L. V., i found this poem in a pile of dead, golden leaves

L. V., i found this poem everywhere the moon touched

Would you hang or would you sink? Flutter like butterfly or moth? Freeze over or return to ash?

These questions were asked at the tail end of September. I was planning to answer them. But then I started to see the same questions cropping up, with beautiful answers, from handfuls of poets. What did you do with all those lovely answers?

Who are you, dear stranger? Is it time now to unmask?

Have you found the answers you were looking for?

And because I have far too much caffeine in my system & I have another cup, I'll be answering other messages that have stagnated in my inbox & I'm sorry it took this long & I don't know how this will go...

All good, dear Anon! I have too many sideblogs for my own good.

I don't use anything fancy. I'm the least "tech"-y person ever. I literally just use any default notes app, or my outdated, but trusty, MS Word app, then take screenshots & use whichever editing app is currently available to me to copy/paste, and move around my screenshots & photos. (Sometimes I edit the colours and all that, but even that gets too complicated for me.)

It quite literally feels like the virtual equivalent of making scrapbooks. Like when you paste/glue/tape down magazine cutouts, cropped newspaper articles, torn pages from your favourite books, and your own personal photos & journal entries on the pages of a notebook your best friend from catholic school gave you a lifetime ago, and you scribble poetry excerpts on the margins for good measure. (Okay, maybe this is too specific but, I hope this answered your question. And PLEASE share with me your art blog, if you're okay with that. And also, don't apologise for the confusion & the slow brain, because—same here.)

SHORT ANSWER: Default notes & editing apps.

I believe these were from the same Anon. This as well.

All I know of you, dear Anon, are these words. And to me, you seem far too kind for this world. I have told you previously that I wanted to keep your first message in my inbox forever. Like it was a precious commodity, like it wasn't meant for me—a love letter that was sent to the wrong address by mistake.

And it feels the same with your recent messages. I, once again, didn't want the world to get its greedy hands on them. I have lost far too many treasured things & people in this way. One way or another, we learn about the opposite of kindness, and of loss, from the world's touch. Perhaps it is loss that teaches people to become selfish and greedy themselves. It seems, to me, dear Anon, that your kindness is streaked with wisdom. And it seems to me that your wisdom is rooted in some kind of pain (but what do I know of kindness or wisdom?). And yet, with mere words, you turn this pain into a blanket of sorts that wards off the cold.

There is warmth here. And it thaws my heart when you say you have gifted these words to others too. They deserve your light. Keep sharing it with them, please. Because your kindness (particularly in that final paragraph) is wasted on someone like me. Because it's far too late for me. But more importantly, I hope you turn all this warmth & light & kindness inward, too.

Anons like these... You take my heart && you throw it into the deep end. Sometimes it floats & the sun feels nice on my face. Most times, my heart sinks. & underneath it all, I could feel the fish's eyes on me.

(But you are far too kind, dear Anons. Just getting lovely messages like these make my account way overrated. Only 2 people were meant to see this. & god, maybe. No one was meant to read my words for this long—for years. My mind is having a hard time fully grasping that. But definitely no offense taken, dear Anon. Your question is very sweet & appreciated. I know the things I post here can be quite dark. Sometimes I need to take the nameless heaviness inside me & turn it into words & nauseating experimental scrapbook-esque edits I concoct thoughtlessly & haphazardly in between trying to live what's left of my life. Because sometimes that's how the light filters in through the waves & reaches me. Maybe we have different definitions of love, dear Anon. But what I'm trying to say is—I hope it's not as dark wherever you are. I hope the sun feels nice on your face. I hope the fishes don't bother you too much. I hope you find a new favourite tumblr account, because this one's a mess & always will be, and unfortunately, there's far too much gravity here.)

I feel drained & deflated. I'll answer other questions/messages again soon. In the meantime, tell me more, dear stranger. Ask your perplexing questions, write me untitled poetry, send your letters to the wrong address, scream into the void.

L. V., i found this poem lying on the bathroom floor

L. V., i found this poem in a local paper's obituaries

L. V., i found this poem stuck between my teeth after the first date

L. V., i found this poem grieving in aisle 3

L. V., i found this poem rummaging through old photographs of you

Have you written any response poems to your older poems from years ago?

yup

L. V., i found this poem in between lines of an unsent letter