Radical writing moves me. War in words. Grappling with grammar. Screw it all. Just write something that moves me.
Is grammar a restriction? Am I imprisoned? Can I make up metaphors and create my own wordsong as my favorite authors have done?
All I know is slowness has curled around me. Slow to rise. Slow to drive. Slow to decide. What. to. do. There isn’t an answer. My partners typically want one. Past partners. This one simply wants to feel connected to me. But what if there isn’t anything to connect to?
Darkness has no umbilical cord. Filled with the void. I deadwalk through my day. Will this wave pass? Like all the rest. Trough of tears. There is no answer. There is no explanation. There is no immediate solution. I’m antsy. Ha! We have ants in our house. Little tiny black insects. Everywhere. Crawling on the carpet unseen on the dog on the counters in the shower ants ants antsantsants. It’s exactly how I feel at work. I’m imprisoned. I’m swarming with edginess. I can’t get out.
Make her go away. That ghost of life last. Last life. Hovering over me. What finally makes a past pain heal. I hear someone saying, forgiveness. Well, screw that. I only have three years of anger after six years of pain. No, it wasn’t all pain, but the majority of the result of the action of the using of the put me down and tell me I can’t do it shit. It’s shit. I’m shit. Don’t argue with me. All the cliches all the money on all the therapy over all the years. No one can make you feel something you don’t believe. I’m shit. Fuck her. She was shit to me, but I’m better at it.
I am terrified of following through. Make me a beginner. Let me sit in the soiled discomfort of newness. The stench of learning. Give me something to figure out push through FIX! Just don’t leave me here is the daily decimation of my mind. I bore too easily. I will begin to cannibalize my existence. And I won’t leave any to share.