I am sitting in my car, unmoving Right foot on the dashboard Smoke nearly filling the cabin, rain outside Grim and grey and compressing me into this small, flattish wafer of a person I am so alone and I do not want to be so alone but I cannot go anywhere I do not want to go anywhere I do not want to go out in this The things that I know will make me happy I cannot find the energy to begin to think about doing, There is too much preamble. I think about curling up in the shower and letting the water beat down on me as I lay on the floor of the tub I think about crawling back into bed and never getting out I think about my hand my shoulder cramping as I clutch this pipe and cannot smoke enough weed to make me feel better no there is not enough to make me feel better
I do not want advice. I just want some fucking relief.
I wish you got to see me today I have my new glasses My curls; the color of the hydrangea we planted out front and the porcelainberries that grow wild out back. hopefully soon they will belong to someone else someone else who will take so many closeup photos of them.
The curve of the tip of my nose I wish you could see it. You would kiss it.
breezy, uncertain i woke to grey light, dim the temporary buoyancy of yesterday, the day before gone. sometime in the night it left, stole away, slunk away embarrassed to have lifted only to leave “i’m sorry,” whispers on the breeze “i’m sorry, that wasn’t for you.”
i’m sorry that wasn’t for you.
my shoulders all wound together knit together, snicked tightly, bound. the hand that holds my pipe tensed and clawed the tips of my fingers white from the pressure
unclench your hand, look at your fingers. sit up, you don’t have to get up. sit up straight, you can stretch. you remember most of it. take in deep breaths of this shaded air look up aggressively blue sky hidden (thankfully) mostly by the canopy there are a lot of silvery clouds breaking up the blue
today feels very uncertain, I feel the mania pulling my shoulders together i will do everything that I can but there is only so much available.
I look at this it looks like a cookie i wanna eat it I look at this and I think you might have liked it. Like really liked it. It has that stone boulder-type look that you loved you made your file folders and icons all have it It has that riveted, homemade robot-type look to it that wonky, wabi-sabi ancient technology look. something you could have unearthed on a dig or found in our backyard, sticking half-up out of the dirt. You can see my fingerprints in it, for now. You can see the literal hand of the artist. The linen cloth I use to protect both surfaces above and beneath.
I had to come forward this far. this far. Three years. I had to come forward this far to make something I truly think you would like.
I think so much that you would like it.
but why am I trying so desperately to please my dead husband?
i do not want to be alive right now i want to be not here right now i do not want anything other than to not fucking exist right now but i can’t write that and post it now because everyone will freak the fuck out so i cant post it i cant reach out i cant scream i cant tell anyone i just have to not do anything not do anything not do anything just sit with this and struggle and scream inside my own head and not do anything nothing nothing nothing
nothing. it is all i can do to sit and type and the stench of that motherfuckers cigarillo is in my fucking apartment and all i want to do is punch him in his fucking dumb face
nothing. nothing i cannot do a thing i will scream and scream and scream and not stop and i cannot stop i have to do nothing.
i know if i open my mouth i will scream and scream and not stop so i dont
nothing. my shoulders are tense and around my ears and tight this empty this noise this noise this noise this noise . there is no enjoy there is not any enjoy.
i need to smoke. i need to smoke but it does not last my plant is so thirsty she needs so much attention i cannot give her the attention the care she needs she is suffering.
i take great big gulps of air but it is not enough there is not enough air..
i am going to go smoke and maybe it will be enough if i just smoke enough
nothing is enough my brain is on fire and falling into a crevasse there is no end to the fire no bottom in sight
it is a relatively quiet evening even with the idiotic clapping of some fucking asshole for some fucking reason even with the assault of garbage music that competes with blasting television noise no yeti-footed neighbor upstairs (took his black-and-tans and split) stop with the fucking clapping for fuck’s sake already
i don’t want music i don’t want noise i want silence nothing interfering
my eyes are dry, for now core unclenched, shoulders still tight, but lower i can think about packing a bowl now try without becoming frustrated, fucking it up easy to do in general, yes but nothing is easy and if that asshole doesn’t stop clapping soon
Waiting in this room by myself with our cat With Teaz’ka Ivan Rumpelteazer, first of his name Cleverly named, loved more than life itself. I am so angry at you for being dead. You aren’t here to be with us You aren’t here to talk to You aren’t here to be overrun with emotion with me
You aren’t here to console him, to console me. We are alone.