Tuesday

I had a bad dream last night.
When I woke up this morning and remembered all that's been happening lately, I wish I could return back to the dream world. At least there I wasn't thinking about my exboyfriend.
The morning cry is always the hardest because there is nothing I want to be awake for.
I need to get a money order and pay my rent so I do.
The cats have no food or litter so I have to run some errands too.
The drive back home has me in tears again.
The sidewalk in front of my building still has writing all over from Saturday night when the kids were playing with sidewalk chalk, it even has scribbles of I love you from my exboyfriend and I.
I can't stand the sight of it. I'm surprised it's still there I thought my building manager would've washed it away by now.
Tonight after work I'll wash it away.
I can't bear any reminders of a happiness I don't have anymore.
I don't care how tired I am from work, I will be on my hands and knees scraping it away, all night if I have to.
God, how did this all go to shit?

I hate being in my apartment. I hate this place now.
I almost want to paint all the walls black, maybe I will.
The cats have fresh food and litter and I managed to take the garbage out and do some dishes.
My rent is paid and I avoided buying laxatives today.
Tomorrow my day off is another story.
Tomorrow is binge day. Tomorrow is b/p all day and binge on boxes of laxatives.
I haven't been eating at all or even drinking water or anything. I'm surprised tears are still readily available despite my non existent water intake.

I work today at the chaotic store. I don't have any expectations. People can treat me like dirt today, I just don't care anymore.

I haven't bothered washing my hair in days, its so dry and brittle, it falls out faster now than ever.
My face is swollen, I look frightful.

I had someone tell me yesterday to cheer up, that one day I would meet someone else again.
At work yesterday I had a few male customers, all very attractive and seemingly normal looking (although you can never tell) and in between generic glances I would give them I would idly wonder to myself, how can anyone love me?
How can anyone love this?
How could I ever possibly love anyone back with this broken heart. I can't even love myself. I hate myself.
Will anyone ever look at me and think 'Wow her..yes she's the one.' I think not.
Frankly it all seems like a lot of work. I'm tired of working. I do cause I need to support myself, do I really want to do more of it.

I haven't had a drink in two days so that's something I guess.

I don't too much care for talking. I want the quiet. I want silence. I feel like I have nothing whatsoever to say anymore to anyone.

I wish I could move away.
My older sister may be moving to Fort Myers and has asked me to go with her, my other sister insists I move to Orlando.
Maybe I should go to New Zealand and visit all the Kiwi's with Peridot, or go to Canada with my sweet Elisa for a few days.
My Panda lives in London and has a new flat with a spare room I could take.

Everything feels like an awful reminder of that night. I'm so tired of crying.
I'm tired of being sad.

I'm tired.

“This Dead Relationship”
 



I carry a dead relationship around everywhere with me.
It’s my hobby.
How lucky to have a job that’s also my hobby,
To do it all the time. A few people notice, and ask if they can help carry this thing.
But, like an alcoholic scared they will hear the clink of glass in
the bag,
I refuse—scared they’ll smell rottenness,
Scared of something under their touch
That will cave in, a skin over brown foam on a bad apple.
I cram this thing over the threshold
Into the cold and speechless house,
Lean against the front door for a moment to breathe in the dark,
Then start the slow haul to the kitchen.
Steel knives catch the moonlight on white tiles. This dead relationship. Or not yet dead. Or dead and half-eaten,
One eye and one flank open, like a sheep under a hedge. Or dead but still farting like the bodies in the trenches,
Exploding with their own gas. Hair and nails still growing. It has the pins and needles of returning feeling in a deadness.
It is a reptile in my hand, quick and small and cool;
The flip of life in a dry, cold bag of loose skin.
A pressure without warmth of small claws and horn moving on
my palm. At night it slips slow but purposeful across the floor towards the bed.
Next thing it’s looking out of my eyes in the morning—
And in the mirror, though my eyes are not my own,
My mouth shows surprise that I am still there at all.
Oh, a sickness that can make you so ill,
Yet doesn’t have the decency to kill you.
A mad free-fall that never hits the ground,
Never knows even the relief of sudden shock;
Just endless medium-rare shock, half-firm, half-bloody all the time.
A long, slow learning curve.
The overheating that can strip an engine badly,
Strain it far worse than a racing rally.
The fear that you will slow to a stop
Then start a soft, thick, slow-gathering roll backwards.
I want something that is familiar but not.
To feel in someone else’s pocket for a key
While they lean away, laughing, their arms up,
Hands in the air covered in grease or dough or paint or clay.
I have to carry it around.
A weeping mother brings a baby to hospital,
Late-night emergency.
The tired doctor smooths the hand-made lace back from its face.
He sees it was stillborn weeks ago, has been dead for weeks.
He looks at her, there is no air in the room …
This dead relationship. This dead and sinking ship.
Bulbs lie, unplanted, on a plate of dust.
Dry and puckered pouches, only slightly mouldy;
Embalmed little stomachs but with hairy, twisted fingers,
Waiting for something to happen without needing to know what it is.
When it happens everything else in the universe can start.
This dead relationship.
I am this thing’s twin.
One of us is dead
And we don’t know which, we are so close.





                                                                 Spatula Bruise!