talk to me about something other than your job, please.

the unpayable debt i owe

the buzz in my head. a clenched train ticket in my fist. the same route home.
nothing has changed.
sometimes there are twinges, cramps, knots of pain in my belly.
sometimes i think i see blood on my sheets.
when i bring them to my face, they're pristine hospital white.
always.
the notion that i've failed without even getting a chance to try doesn't dim

x

you send me a message, like a teenager. i'm too angry, i'm too hurt. you just sat there, last time i saw you. you sat there and let him rip into me like a rabid dog. you sat there until finally i tore myself away. the words that left your mouth were as awful as his.
you promised, you promised you were always going to be on my side.
and today you send me a message, like a teenager. "i don't really know what to say."
i'll tell you what to say.
"sorry."
"i shouldn't have let that go so far."
"i'm so sorry."
"are you ok?"
"how can we fix this?"
in this whole fucking debacle, people have overlooked most conveniently, how hurt i am. i am bleeding, i am bruised, i am limbless. this is physical, because if i think about how upset i am, how sad, how angry, then things will get worse. you've caused enough damage.
they talk about how it effects them. how it pains them, the void between us. i find it hard to care, when my throat still feels ripped raw from the things i was trying not to say.
it would have been easy for me to be as rabid as you two. i'm known for my viciousness. which is why everyone uses me as target practice.
i don't think i can be bothered anymore. i'll call it in, i'll let you see this as a victory.
but i don't think i'll ever let you in on any of my plans again.

x

it hurts too much, thats the general thrust of things. too much to make anything good happen

steeple to steeple

all the words i could have said, the apologies that died thick, poisoned by my spleen. all the truths i should have told, as the world tried to end around us. all the regrets i said i didn't have. the silence that cloaked us, the heat that burnt our nerve endings, our synapses.

all the times it could have been different.



was it my fault? when i tore down the sky, when i condemned God. when i opened my mouth. when i bought into repetition as a literary device of merit. was it my fault?

-

as children we were emperors, lords, ladies, baronesses, paupers, theives, sailors, pirates, military men, mermaids, pilots, librarians, accountants. we had vast possibilites, value, worth, as children.




endless filler. because as an adult, the possibilities and the value and the worth are harder to grasp if the dollar doesn't give you wet dreams.