The earth is round, the sky is blue, and Kristen Stewart smokes Camel filters and writes shitty, embarrassing poetry.
In an interview with Marie Claire, a perpetually disheveled Stewart, 23, sits on a "sofa draped in a Navajo blanket in front of a cedar trunk–cum–coffee table in her tiled living room with dazzling views of Los Angeles" and shares her thoughts on life, love, and acting, all whilst chain smoking and juicing carrots.
Stewart tells the reporter she believes that love is like, really complicated:
You don't know who you will fall in love with. You just don't. You don't control it. Some people have certain things, like, 'That's what I'm going for,' and I have a subjective version of that. I don't pressure myself … If you fall in love with someone, you want to own them—but really, why would you want that? You want them to be what you love. I'm much too young to even have an answer for that question.
But she also believes that working through the complications and love and life via poetry are "essential to her sanity." Then she shares a poem she wrote on a road trip to Texas last year, prefacing her reading with, "Oh, my God, it's so embarrassing. I can't believe I'm doing this." And yet, even though she can't believe it, she still does it.
My Heart Is A Wiffle Ball/Freedom Pole
I reared digital moonlight
You read its clock, scrawled neon across that black
Kismetly … ubiquitously crest fallen
Thrown down to strafe your foothills
…I'll suck the bones pretty.
Your nature perforated the abrasive organ pumps
Spray painted everything known to man,
Stream rushed through and all out into
Something Whilst the crackling stare down sun snuck
Through our windows boarded up
He hit your flint face and it sparked.
And I bellowed and you parked
We reached Marfa.
One honest day up on this freedom pole
Devils not done digging
He's speaking in tongues all along the pan handle
And this pining erosion is getting dust in
And I'm drunk on your morsels
And so I look down the line
Your every twitch hand drum salute
Salutes mine …
While there's nothing inherently wrong with Stewart or anyone writing shitty, embarrassing poetry, shitty, embarrassing poetry does not belong in Marie Claire. It belongs in pathetic emails sent in the middle of the night, hand-written notes dropped off on doorsteps when the recipient refuses to answer phone calls, MFA seminars, and anonymous Thought Catalog submissions.
But none of this embarrassment matters because Stewart believes that if you're "operating from a genuine place, then you can't really regret anything." Even wiffle ball poems.