- comfort moods
- Posts
- a bell jar of my own
a bell jar of my own
cooter doodle
April 27, 2025
[damaged]
I’m done with sitting safely at the crotch of a fig tree.
I want grass stains
and bruises
and tales of broken bones.
I want my hair blown twisted, coiled and knotty.
Before it’s forced still beneath the weight of stone.
I’m done with sitting at the crotch of a fig tree.
I want to walk the forest
and lose my tracks.
I want to push my senses
beyond their limits.
Before all the figs turn fucking black.
So what if they say I’m damaged
From staring straight into the sun.
So what if…
So what.
The figs, they’re yelling at me now!
They’re begging me to leave.
So I tell them sex is always better
when I leave dirty dishes in the sink.
I tell the figs my secrets.
And the figs, they applauded me.
So what if they say I’m damaged.
So what if I can take nothing back.
So what if…
So what.
The unused figs turn fucking black.
An excerpt from The Bell Jar.
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of others lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
On Repeat
just eat the figs, dammit.
until next time. -cd
