you get so sick sometimes, it all comes crawling back. the angst, the pain. you lie to even yourself. i am going to read, going to write, going to smile. but you look in the mirror and your hair is driving you crazy and you want to slap your own cheeks, because to bruise yourself would show that you are alive. crying in a grocery parking lot because you want to slice your skin open over a day gone rotten, too many little things adding up until the scale tipped and the tears fell and you lost your grip on reality. real tea, spilled.
individually, none of your circumstances are so dire. but added up one by one over twenty seven years, twenty seven years of pain and anguish and you feel two thousand years old. is it over yet? if i woke up in hell tomorrow, the world having ended in my sleep, i would not be surprised.
you feel guilty, but then you remember that love and hate are twins, not opposites. and your motto is: keep moving forward. it’s all you can do.