Moods. Spread like rainbow sprinkles over peanut butter on an open-face what-the-hell-was-I-thinking sandwich.
Sometimes sad. Then angry. Resentful. Relieved. Deeply sympathetic. Sad again.
Yes, I think that's the pattern. I wish there were an easier way to get through this. If it weren't raining, if I hadn't already taken my meds, if I had clothes on, and a warm thermos of tea. I'd get high. I'd walk and think until my blazed brain had thought itself to a crisp. Then I would sleep. I would sleep long and deep.
Grief is a motherfucker in the middle of a pandemic, civil unrest, the beginning of hurricane season, an election year, raising a teenage son, trying to maintain any rational semblance of normal in the middle of all of that. Clustered.
Sometimes, I want to hate her. Others, I wish she'd disappear. And still once in a while I shake my head because I don't know why it had to go down at all.
I don't want to love her anymore. I don't want anymore fish hooks dangling before me. I want to give away all of my latent, useless hope to the sorry, sad world.
I feel used and manipulated and deceived and taken for granted and not really wanted for who I am or what I think I have to offer. I am an a demolished brutalist structure. Don't ask where they got a bulldozer large enough. Hurting is stupid for longer than it's good for.
Yeah, I just need one last cigarette and then I'll go to bed.
I wish attachment could be extracted like teeth.