I’m searching for daisies in the cracks of my heart because someone told me there was beauty in a breakdown. As I’m grasping the opaque moment of 4 A.M. drenched by my own tears, I lay next to the toilet vomiting because I can’t get myself together. Hours pass by and my eye bags are as puffy as crinoline, my nose is as red as hibiscus flowers, and my face is as pale as snow. Every feeling I have attempted to suppress rises from my stomach and into my throat like bile that mixes with regret and spews onto the floor.
I attempt to shrug all these demons off and tell myself that I am not the only one feeling this type of way. But the distorted memories of you engage with my functioning on a bi-weekly basis. I know it’s all just influenced by my fight-or-flight hormones rushing through my body. The long lasting flashbulb memories intensify my sadness, and slaps me down face flat on the lonely tiled bathroom floor. Sometimes the memories of you take hold of my fiber being to the point; I can’t recognize myself in the mirror. I know for once, that this is not a creation of a false memory. Its impact is broad. Its purpose holds. Its duration is long, and the capacity is large.
Now there’s this shadow that lingers above me, and I can’t help but want to reach it up and pull it around me. I became a weight that dragged on those I care about, so I cut the rope and watched them float into the sky above me as I fell below. I’ve spent most of my life admiring stars, wishing I could possess or become one, but instead, I became buried six feet deep and never saw them again.
A literary mess living from a suitcase, tripping over Tupperware full of dry cat food. Two are sleeping in a twin bed, the other two on a single cot. Bodies are covered in cat fur. 3 AM and his teeth is grinding. I clean off entitlement. I give. Then, there are two moths and one spider in the bathtub with a side of slow drainage. There’s the unhappy couple. Best bro friends squeezing a can of empty Icehouse beer. 3 trash bags by the door. The water pressure is non-existent. Vents are ripped out of the wall, throwing the room off. Frequent cat sex on ottoman. Frequent cat vomit and shit on the aged hardwood floor. A door that doesn’t stay shut. Can’t vibe with the girls because they’re all
But I’m Au naturel.
No countertop space but enough for his $5.99 Dominican Club Vodka. Inconsistent sleep. It’s him or the dirty couch. Constant cartoons from his room. I voluntarily cramp my feet in bed. It’s most comfortable when pain is provided. Fans whirling overnight have become some sort of mantra just like the broke people complaining about being broke. I’m having my sense of luxury wearing my mother’s slippers and drinking two bottles of discounted La Marco Prosecco in the morning.
Check out these repeated stories, and fixed mindsets. Don’t forget to observe the games being played! Become the fool, it can be fun at times! What’s this? Checkout my permanent muscle aches. Check out that month old gummy bear on the floor. Become one with the eye sore!
Strands of my false blonde hair are uprooting into my tobacco filled larynx. There’s knifelike gravel in the rugged and grimy platform boots my server legs fit snugly in. I’m keeping plastic wrappers and convenience store receipts in the holes of my puffy, ash stained coat pockets. The living is sleazy.
Aubergine eyes with sparks
Lips as soft as plumbago flowers
Auburn hair with flames
You’re nothing like that
But I still stare and talk to you
You however wear my love
brooch on a dress
adhesive beauty scar
adorns your vanity
take pride in knowing that I want you and you don’t want me back.