Friday, June 2, 2017


This all worked so much better when I knew who the words were going to.

I don't know who you are, why you're here, what your motives may be. I write bottle messages. I write to the universe sea & the order of self. Are you waiting for personal mention? Hungry for it, perhaps? Might my literary representation of something you believe yourself to be a part give you greater justification for how you live your life? For the gossip you spin? 

Does the last paragraph give you ease every time you utter a negative phrase about me?

Here's the gem you were waiting for: 

The week before my mother's wedding to my father, she expressed doubts. "Everyone has cold feet," my Grandma told her. And on June 3rd, forty-six years ago tomorrow, the deal was bound up that meant my eventual conception. I wish it had not been so. I wish, if I believed in spirits, I might have screamed in my mother's ear to run from the altar, and that she would have bolted for the nearest staircase. I wish one half of my gametes had split north & the other south. If not that, I wish for kinks in the vas deferens, clogs in the tubbing. They could eventually adopt. They did anyway. And that would be find. But I wish I had not been born & to be perfectly honest I'm holding out for the end. Everyone who loves me knows this. Life has been too hard, too long. Depression refuses to lift despite all the usual tricks. I have little hope, but I hope it's over soon.

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