Sometimes you just have to keep writing something until you get it right/die
All of It
for all of it, the slight of hands and sideways glances; the shallow breathing, and the violence; the unsaid and the consequences; the easy lies and the broken promises, the humbling of love and the beauty of kindness; the loneliness of running and the compassion of silence; the sabotage and medicine, and the mindfulness in the pursuit of last chances, for all of it, I wouldn’t change a thing, except, maybe, the timing.
In the fractured light of tomorrow morning, when the last drops of wine have been drunk and everyone is sleeping, I will drag a bag of dreams down the stairs of this apartment building, and leave them on the curb for recycling.
He walked with a lingering gait, forged by years of being in a hurry to be dead, and the disappointment that comes with failing. She was a collision of panic and grace; pieced together from the twisted remains of her broken down parents, and a marriage she had hoped would help her escape, but left her black and blue with a perforated ear drum, instead. Except for the sound of a dollar bill being rejected by a vending machine, the waiting room was empty. “Where you headed?” he asked. “Beautiful,” she said.
If someone says something hurtful to you, try and imagine them calling you names as they drive by at 100 mph with the window rolled down. You know they shouted something. You are not sure what it was. You know they are going to crash.
In the last few months I have been talking to myself more than usual, and when I mentioned it, in passing, at a recent doctor’s appointment she said it was nothing to worry about—as long as I mostly kept it to small talk.