I think I've been wrong, mistaken being weak with strong. All the judgements & indignations, yet taken no actions. There's the sense of loss, plus the rage & escapes. But why am I still here? Just to stand around? Maybe I will be happy, by chance, to help someone, anyone. It's always been an excuse, that "I felt deeply, & cared too much."
I'm closer to Y's death date than X's death date. Wonder if I will beat Betty White's record. It's too late to flame out in a glaze of vomit. Just hoping I don't out last my bank balance. As long as my death date's later than my parents', and there's no new birth date to be remembered. No worries if other generations fall off the calendar. No strings attached I can roam free of charges.
Never been comfortable being alive. Always thought it's at the cost of some one. I think that I might be that some one. I want to be any one but that some one.
It's like my body's pushing itself out. It smells like a slaughter house. Then I let the sound out. No one's around, still I embarrass myself. How am I embarrassing myself? I let the sound out. Back of my head, there's space to reflect: why does it feel wrong and right? Why is it not enough to let the sound out? Just let it out.
I was sitting by the door like old man stupid except I was on period. Out came the question, "How can I be happy if I'm afraid of it?" Then I took a nap since I felt sick. When I woke up, there's ringing in my ears.
My self is a slippery bitch wants to hide in the mud. I try to lure it out. It tells me to go to hell. So I went and stayed till it ran out of masks. I sigh & ask, "What now?" Self says, "Don't look at me for help." So I wrangle the bitch out, make it sit while I draw. It doesn't like it one bit, but it's high time to live. I don't know where we split, maybe since the first period. The self no longer fit, so it went escapist. Gee, I wonder what we could've been. Probably happily in oblivion. But then I'd be bored. So I guest it worked out best.
There's the dark nights with no land in sight, drifting in the shifting fog & the reflections on the ink black. Sleep's someone else's dream & I'm having the nightmare leftovers. They look familiar. I say, "Hi." Perfecting the personal recipe for self-reproach, doubt & "Oh, what was I thinking?" "Was I really there? Am I even here?" I think I will go on, regardless.