Category: Uncategorized

9:24a, 10 september, 2019

i don’t know why i thought i would be able to do this
why i thought that the anniversary of the week he died would be a good idea
to try and sort through everything in this house
our house
the weather is cooler
my brain, not so much on fire
and now that there is a bit of calm
to try to take stock, sort through
instead i look at everything from where i sit
overwhelmed
over and overwhelmed
wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed
i have done nothing. no thing. not one.

“…oh what a world, i don’t wanna leave
there’s all kinds of magic, it’s hard to believe
thank god it’s not too good to be true
oh, what a world, and then there is you
plants that grow and open your mind
these are real things thank god it’s not too good to be true
oh, what a world, and then there is you…”

kacey musgraves

i don’t wanna leave, i don’t.
i know he didn’t want to leave either and that is 
so fucking maddening and painful and
heart breaking. HEARTBREAKING.
it wasn’t even his heart that killed him ffs.
we didn’t have enough time.
we didn’t have nearly enough time.
we spent so much time getting through all our pain together
misunderstanding each other
getting to the point we reached three years ago.
a year before he died.
i wish (do i?) that i knew the exact day things turned
that we turned towards the sun, towards the light
like the sunflowers i used to fear
(they always turn their faces to the sun, they are good, they are pure)
i wish i knew the exact day as clearly as i remember the conversation.
the moment things turned truly good. 

i know that i have to leave this place, this house
our house.
was a very very very fine house.
with one cat in the yard.
life used to be so hard.
now it is so very hard.
nothing is easy. it never has been.

here i am, nearly two years on
i still don’t have any idea how to do this.
i am running out of time.

cherish the day. the moment.
the second.
the briefest speck of time.

it disappears
is snatched away
and you never get it back.

1:16a. 8 september, 2019

things feel slowed down 
are
     slowed down.
time there’s time
it seems a surfeit
                            of time.
time to reflect
to think about
think about how slowing down the
footage helps me to walk through
possible timelines. outcomes.
collateral damage.
consequences.

it still feels alien, but less so.
i’m still surprised by it, but less so.
i encourage it, welcome it.
more so.

all of this slowing down has
made ending things easier
and falling headlong into others
easier still
surprising me with the ease of which
i have fallen in love with you.

It begins again. 7 September, 2019

The difference two years makes.

The girl on the right has no idea that a few hours later, she’s going to watch her husband get his life saved by his defibrillator/pacemaker right in their living room. She has no idea that the trip to the emergency room that night will be the last time she takes her husband there.

That it is the last week on this planet for her husband.

The girl in the middle, a year out from that night, operating on sheer mania and lack of sleep. Fucking up everything, it seems, though people are quick to tell her, “no, no.”

The girl on the left, today. I honestly have no idea how I’m even breathing but for the unending care and tenderness of some truly spectacular humans. Still fucking everything up that isn’t life-or-death and refusing to give a single shit about it any more. Loving deeply and intensely with no regard for those who fly too close to my flame and get burned. Indulging in ink and sex and cannabis and embracing everything good. Dismissing anything less-than.

I no longer settle. I no longer feel less-than.

I miss you more, Gary. I miss you so goddamn much.

I have so much to tell you.

8:51a, 6 september, 2019

there are so many things i’ve wanted to tell you
so much i’ve discovered
about the world
about myself
music, tv, life, art.
humans. people.
people i think you would like, approve of
people i want to tell you about, share
humans i have told about you
the good ones, they respond with warmth
with love. tenderness and care.
anyone else is dismissed, flicked away
deleted.
no time for unadulterated bullshit.

today is the day before the day that
it began for the last time.
the day before the day that was your last in this house
on this couch.
it is as clear as it was seven hundred thirty days ago.

“…Now I miss you more than I can take
And I will surely break
And every morning that I wake
god, it’s the same
There’s nothing more to it
I just get through it

It always takes me by surprise
how dark it gets this time of year
and how apparent it all becomes
that you’re not close, not even near

no matter how many times I tell myself
I have to be sincere
I have a hard time standing up
and facing those fears…”

To A Poet, First Aid Kit

9:19a, 8 august, 2019. The Colonel, revisited.

I don’t know why I thought it was a
good idea to see you
i didn’t think
didn’t realize.
that letter i’ve been carrying around
in this the back pocket of this book?
the one i told you about
the one you read out loud
lying next to me in that delicious bed at the Thayer
that lovely, decadent, secret enclave
our tiny fort within a veritable fort
i didn’t realize that was from two years ago,
from Before.
So much has happened, so much.

when i got home from seeing you yesterday
i took it out and read it again.
remembering being enveloped in your embrace
hearing the depth of your voice reverberating in your chest
as you read it.

feeling yesterday this edge this
sadness.
knowing now that it will never be the same
and grieving for that, too.

8:09p 5 august, 2019 proof (dys)positive

proof (dys)positive

I’ve seen the show, Big Little Lies.
Tall, thin, impossibly beautiful and wealthy women still
stuck in terrible situations
I have clients, women I see, with proof
that elusive jewel that
vacation that
proof.
I have clients, men that I see,
who come to me for proof that they are still worthy.

Proof is a diamond, clear and bright.

Proof is a photograph, photographs. A vacation.
A shared
hobby. An experience.
Underneath it all, under those covers
lie secrets, secret desires, shame.
leaving me wanting nothing more than validation. proof of concept.
Proof of value.

Proof.

12:36p 5 august, 2019. Proof.

Proof.
it isn’t what i have
have ever had.
Except for that first, insulting thing.
Even at 21 i didn’t want to believe that
that physical manifestation was what
was what he thought I was worth.
I’d always assumed it was his mother’s view of what I was worth.
And his opinion of me ended up being worthless anyway.
(It always was, worthless. I gave back the ring, little, insulting thing.)

Proof.
It is what I have always wanted.
Proof of my importance.
My worth.

My parents bought a kiln for my 18th birthday.
That was proof, surely, seemed like proof.
My father put in a 220v outlet in the garage
(220, 221, whatever it takes).
I taught myself to fire it.
I had very little idea what I was doing, barely.
Flying by the seat of my pants.
Read the manual, over and over.
Again and again.
No internet back then; no YouTube.
Glaze-firing greenware.
Nothing exploding; nothing failing.

Proof, I suppose.
Proof, however, of my own personal strength, worth.
Different from what I am craving, thirsting for.

Proof.
I have a music box that Gary gave me for our second Christmas. Or was it my birthday?
I don’t remember.
I used to know.
A music box with a ballerina, like the one I had as a child.
I used to wind it up and watch it and listen to it.
Over and over, again and again.
Soothing me when I was afraid.
“Where is it now?” he had asked of my childhood safety.
“No idea, lost in a move somewhere.”
No idea.

No idea how to save myself.
How to feel worthy.
How to feel real.
How to get proof.

10:18a 5 august, 2019. depression, edging dysphoria.

it was easier to say
“I’m in a lot of pain this morning,
I’ll be in a half hour late”
than to say
“i can barely see straight because i am empty.”
that my heart feels empty.
but I imagine what you would think of me now,
this person I have had to become.
things I have done
have had to do.
what would you say to me?
how would you reconcile this person? your wife?
your glitter girl?
your Manic Pixie Dream Girl?
your perfect fantasy girl.

I don’t know why I bothered with makeup this morning.