Not for nothing — a stream of reluctant consciousness.
I make plans with myself, it’s how I maintain boundaries with others.
A sad song for tears, then something with heavy bass for anger. Learning that happiness will come.
Outfits picked out in my head for that vengeful scene in movies that never seem to happen in real life. We’re too global to casually bump into anyone anymore.
Vodka on a split lip — the goth kid within revels in the sting; I’m already rationalizing with my inner therapist that it doesn’t count as self harm.
I sit to absorb.
The haunts of dating
You’re haunting me, consciously and unconsciously. You float through my inbox with a “how’s life” every so often; like a seasoned horror-film survivor, I know better than to engage. But you also run laps around my head, take up space I never decided to give you.
A weekend passes in which I know we would have had plans, in that alternate universe where we are compatible. We would have done a hot mountain getaway for our close birthdays. Instead I drive in and out of service all day, both surprised and relieved you chose to hide…
That lethargic, tedious ache — scarring up a little more every day.
Another looming birthday, another failed relationship; or rather, another bucket of ice water over the head, realizing I had settled into old destructive patterns yet again, with a new asshole. Another round of “damn, those were some red flags I ignored, I can’t believe I tolerated that for so long.” A new person to be angry at for false promises and disappointment. …
A short story
It was a weird week. You don’t give a shit.
You haven’t given a shit for a while. I would be just as much an ass as you if I continued.
You called to say you’re not coming tonight, you’ll come tomorrow. I begrudgingly went along with it. For about five minutes.
You are too predictable. You said you couldn’t plan for tequila, you couldn’t plan for forgetting to set an alarm. That’s just it, you couldn’t plan. I planned for this. I saw it coming. …
“Ah yes, done with ruins, let’s get to the… rubble?”
Those who are close to me know that I have been struggling for about eight months now, and when I say struggling, I mean devastatingly stuck in myself. I have been a long-time hypocritical advocate of the notion that “everyone should go to therapy” without actually going to therapy myself. I have struggled before, but always found something or someone to pin my struggles to; I externalized and moved on.
And implement strict screening protocol.
I personally started socially isolating on Friday, March 13th, but not to the standards that I would eventually find necessary.
My friends and I were supposed to go on a skiing trip to Aspen that weekend but, seeing how Aspen had become a hotspot for cases, decided we didn’t want to be the ones to bring it back to Denver. A few of us played cards at home that night, figuring we had seen each other already that week, so we weren’t doing any harm.
I personally saw my boyfriend and one other couple that…
I love to start stories and never finish them.
I love how they wait for me, they wait to be told.
They wait for inspiration. They wait for love, heartbreak, epiphany, terror, bliss.
I love how patient my stories are.
I love how they grant me space, they grant me time.
They grant me catharsis. They grant me peace, expression, forgiveness, communication.
I love the duality of my stories.
I love how they cast a mirror before me, they cast new and changing shadows.
They cast spells of expansion. They cast filters, actors, mediums, fictions, clarity.
I love the virtues…
A little prose about anxiety.
It’s like a delicate, oblong baseball-sized rock, frozen in my chest. If someone would just come along and put a bit of pressure on it, it would be fine.
It would crack and release that fluid like when someone pops your back. I would be able to breathe again.
Inhale, trust floods in. Exhale, second guessing pushes out.
My body would let me fall asleep. Months of insomnia and residual tiredness collapsing as my muscles turn from stone to flesh. Melting into my pillow topper, excited to wake again.
Inhale, my heart flutters to a…
I don’t remember exactly how old I was, maybe 7 or 8.
My mother had just bought a beautiful kitchen table and matching chairs. It was heavy and had a leaf insert that could make the circular shape into an oval if we had guests. The tabletop itself was a light summer oak color.
It had been in the house maybe a few months. One day my brother and I were coloring on the table while she did something or another, probably paying bills or reading a cookbook. All of a sudden she looked up and started yelling.