i do not recommend. 909p, 9 march, 2020

i sold the fireplace.

i sold the thing that kept us warm,
kept me warm at the end.

i sold it for three hundred dollars.
it cost us three thousand.

(i do not recommend
when someone you love dies, when someone with whom you have a complicated relationship dies
i do not recommend that you be the one to sell their things.
it is heartbreaking to hear someone argue
that five dollars is too much for the leather belt that held up your husband’s jeans.
that isn’t holding up his jeans anymore because he is dead.
i do not recommend it at all.)

i took the steampunk raygun out of that girl’s hands
being very careful to not snatch it
or be angry
or upset
knowing that my word was law
that i could say anything to anyone
that the regular rules of retail Did Not Apply.
that i could tell her, carefully, breathing very, very carefully,
the sensation of broken glass in my lungs
“no, honey, I’m sorry you can’t have that.”
she looked crestfallen.
i don’t care.
it was mine to keep, mine to give to him.
mine to keep.
still, i felt craven as i clutched it,
remembering his vicious long-ago comment about my “grubby paws”
(meds clouded my memory back then so all that remains is his proclamation that i am, was
craven, grasping, sub-human.)

feeling like setting fire to the place would release me of this finally
every single thing i keep putting aside to take
still, rooms with piled treasure
(is it, though? is it really worth keeping?)

hey, you with the grubby paws?

this is what it comes down to.

i sold the fireplace.

i fucking hate spring. 9 march, 2020

I hate spring.

I hate spring so fucking much.
Especially since i love all the flowers.

I fucking hate spring.

It’s the weirdest thing, what happens to people’s faces when you say
“i hate spring”
it’s like you’ve said “I EAT KITTENS ALIVE. WITH HOT SAUCE.”
like how could you hate spring?
even the fucking name SPRING
fuck you.

i never knew it was a thing, a valid thing that it wasn’t only me
not until i was thirty.
not until i read
An Unquiet Mind
saw that it was a familiar, if not common symptom of bipolar disorder,
like self-medicating (check!)
poor impulse control (doubling down!!)
hypersexuality (triple-whammy checkaroonie!!!)

All of the manic, growing energy of the Northern Hemisphere
and Mother(fucking) Nature (you malevolent cunt) going balls to the wall
sending roots deep into the earth
budding leaves reaching for the sky
grow grow GROW
the very air hums as if electrified
is electrified
amplifying every atom, every nuance of mood
every paranoid, unworthy thought
it is taking enormous effort
exquisite pain
to bridle this rage, this beast.
you can’t possibly be worthy
not you.

Not. You.

i fucking hate spring.

but summer’s worse.