Eat your heart. Don't digest.

3/11/2008 at 6:58 PM

When I cover my mouth with my blue quilt and hold my breath then dive under what the fuck is the point? When I stick my hands under my pillow and breathe out through my nose with my dog beside me the hell am I doing? Looking for, hiding against, gluing down and cutting out pictures that I find interesting, things that catch my attention. I'm just a swollen heart. "Let us hope that we are preceeded in this world by a love story." All I want want want is to wake up in the morning and spring out of bed. Does anyone do that? Do you do that? DOES ANYONE DO THAT? Or is that just one of the numerous facades that we see each day on the television screen. I damn think it is. She doesn't dress that way, he would not say that in real life. When there is a body next to me it's not a lover's. It's a friend so that when I cry she hears, when I bang the walls with the two dents, one on top of each other by me, womanmade, she's there and I don't want her to be but how can I say? How can you say "No thanks I'd rather just do what depressed people do, which I am, which status is not going to change any time soon, by myself. Just grab me some tissues, yeah that'll be all." Like I'm ordering from a drive through window, like I'm asking for someone to grab me that sandwich, no not THAT one, THAT one. And my sobs are something out of wilderness, like a bear. Like I'm just waiting for the darkness outside my window to come in. I open it sometimes so that it will join me. Like I'm watching this movie and all I want is for it to be over and I never say these things. I never EVER say these things.

They come to me in the middle of the day, when I'm sitting on the side by the sink with my feet with the running water and the dog growling at some animal outside near the fence with the empty pieces of paper on my lap, with the tears because No I didn't go to work today. No I'm not going to work tomorrow, no I don't deserve any of this. Not the kindness that is bestowed upon my unwilling self, not the job that sometimes I go to and waste the days by Xeroxing pages of my library books and writing in the margins and talking to myself and what is the definition of alone? Is it pie, is it a ring on my right hand, is it different kinds of happy or is it watching the movie Sweet Land and just crying because it's so right how are there people so right and becoming. Becoming myself is what I always want and when does it come? When you've stopped looking for it and have sunken down to lying on the hard kitchen floor with the uneven tiles but I wanted this townhouse that doesn't attach to any other because of the view of the dead vegetable garden that I walk over and over in my bare feet and talk to the soil when I don't want anyone else to hear.

It's something the deer don't hear, the paper doesn't soak up, the new old secretary that I lay my head down on and it's always cold, the paint is always coming off, I always see my fading reflection in and it's just never ever stopping. I am just never stopping in my dreaming and getting the wrong idea with a beer in the kitchen listening to other conversations and dreaming about when it stops and I can sleep and then I can really dream. My dreams about the living, the ones living in the back of my yard with the green, beyond the rusted gate, beyond the thick trunks of the trees that I whisper to and hug and peel the bark from, where I wander and walk to the treehouse that was there when we bought it with the broken roof but swings that still are there that I stand on and rock back and forth and touch the unwelcoming sky.

Welcome to this unwelcome spot.

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