Okay, first of all, just because I like Ellen Kennedy and Sylvia Plath and Beckett doesn't mean I want to kill myself. If you want to kill yourself, don't tell the internet, because there is bound to be someone on it who knows where you live, and this person will call the police in your town. I learned this lesson when I was thirteen. Also, if you are living in a fog of suicidality, blogging becomes the least important thing in the world. I mean, it probably already is the least important thing in the world.
I got an email today from a journal that had rejected me, asking for my address so they could send me contributor copies. I had to write back and remind them about the rejection.
And speaking of being thirteen, I think "Elm" is one of the first poems I ever loved, that ever moved me in mysterious ways. I wrote it out by hand on all of my school notebooks. I would read it over and over, late at night, trancelike, the way someone else might listen to their favorite song on their favorite mix tape, made by their favorite person, or maybe by the person who used to be their favorite person until this person became a heartbreaker. I remember when my mom caught me reading my library copy of Sylvia Plath's journals and asked if I knew what had happened to her. Of course I knew what had happened to her. That was the whole reason I was reading her journals.