He calls the apples of my cheeks dimples and I’ve got to soak the rice for at least a half an hour before I cook it. And I was so angry that I almost screamed on the phone with her. It bubbled up in me like a maniac tidal wave of: I’ll be homeless, have to move all my stuff back to the tiny ranch house that’s dirty yellow, and him and I will have another summer but can it always be the way we had it. (Nothing can be the same.) And he doesn’t deserve firework stained arms or Morgan made meals.
Where was I today while they argued like schoolgirls, making inane points and taking up time that could be spent watching Jon Stewart while the bones in my back, sag and the discs slip and I get shorter by the day, by the hour, until my knees are in my shoes and I am holding up my pants with my bra until I simply disappear.
Where was I, this afternoon with research to be done and essays to write, and lesson plans to create, covering myself, staining my fingertips until everything I touched was pressed with large black marks.
Echoes of what “should bes” and “not gonna happens” are filling the space around me as time winds down to end of day, where four hours of interesting man, violently passionate, scolds the ways I’ve been told to follow from birth. Urging me to let go and empty my cup, and it hits me, that’s where I am when the deadlines pile up or they start to argue over dates and the ability to be flexible. I am sitting back and letting go and drinking in the feeling of my feet in these Dr. Scholl’s. I am thinking about the Nutrigrain bar stuck in the back of my teeth and down right refusing to take any side.
Release.
Its dirty under my fingernails and they’ve peeled and shattered themselves short. No longer a wild animal, I retreat to hoodies and child-like illustrations. I haven’t done the cryptoquip in days and showering is at the bottom of my agenda.
- I’ll get to it another day.
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