Kelly Clarkson / 6.9.16 / 7:34-8:04

To say I miss you would be an insult so I won’t say I miss you, though I’ve already said it twice. Since you left me, there’s been a hole.

There’s really no other way to put it.

There’s a hole in the bed we shared for forty-six years. In the house we roamed for the seventeen since we retired. In the Buick that’s still running due to some inexplicable miracle, the same Buick you tried to insist I get rid of.

Who knew the Buick would outlast you? Outlast us?

The goddamn hunk will probably survive me, considering the mass eating away at my brain.

It’s funny, that mass.

It’s taken away my hands and feet. My taste buds and some of my hearing. But it hasn’t taken away thoughts of you.

I still feel you, still smell you in my bed clothes. I swear I hear your footsteps on the staircase in the middle of the night, right around two when you needed that glass of water that would nearly make you pee yourself first thing in the morning.

But that just may be the tumor.

For all the holes in my life now, thanks to you, the biggest one is the pit of anger I find myself falling down every time I think of you.

Two years. For two years, you’ve abandoned me, left me here, rotting.

I’m so angry with you, I shake when my nurse touches me.

You would hate her. Call her a hussy. And nosy.

She tried to report my shaking as seizures but I pulled her in close one day and just said your name. She got it then, though she didn’t share my rage. Instead, she looks at me with pity now.

You make people pity me.

And I want to say that I hate you for it but that wouldn’t be right.

If anything, I feel alive again because of it, but it doesn’t fill the holes.

Only you could do that.

But you’re not here, are you?

I should just let go, right? Let go of my anger, let go of the empty feeling associated with you, let go of you.

But I can’t. I can’t let go of you and of my pseudo anger and hatred towards you because I’ll die. I’ll finally let go and I will die and I don’t fear death. No, it’s not death I fear.

It’s the thought there’s nothing after. It’s the possibility that there will be no you, no us.

So I lay here, day after agonizing day, holding onto memories of you, of us, while my brain fails me, my body rots, and that goddamn Buick laughs at it all.

Each day that hole widens, traces of you slipping through. Forever.

I miss you. Goddamn it, I miss you. And I don’t want to.

Haunted / 5.23.16 / 2:30-3:00

My body betrays me constantly.

I feel things that aren’t there, hear sounds that never existed, taste foods that want to kill me.

It’s more than the feather-light touches that dance across my back or caress my cheek. It’s the tickle of multitudes of legs along the shell of my ear. It’s the sharp poke of a fang stabbing my hip. It’s the pinch to my areola, hardening my nipple, wetting my apex.

It whispers to me when I’m not paying attention. I must always pay attention. If I don’t, the low resonance fucks with my eardrum, the treble cracks the tiny bones, and I have to hold my hands to my ears and my head between my knees for it to stop. No matter where I am.

Otherwise, I’ll bleed.

And the blood is loud enough as it is.

Every beat of my heart is an intimate earthquake. Most times I wish for it to stop. I wish for it to cease its pedantic tuning and let me go.

Or give me control.

It thinks it knows best, my heart. Along with my warring brain, I have no autonomy. I am a slave to this living shell that just keeps going.

Betraying me. Overtaking my lack of will to live and making me stay, keeping me existing.

I don’t see the point of it. Digging deep, I find nothing but gore. Nothing roots me here. Nothing wants me here.

Yet my body pushes on.

It’s been a long time since these sensations, these spirits of sight and sound and taste, haven’t been my own to keep. The source has been memories, thoughts, or wishes.

I fuck and suck and listen to ghosts. Phantoms. The company that insists on reminding me of my loneliness. The loneliness that sees no end.

I don’t blame them, the others. I understand the recoil during my moments. The moments that stretch and repeat enough to be a constant. I want to recoil from myself. I want to pull away from this sack of flesh and bone and transcend into what I hope to fuck is better than this.

But my body. It’s not my own. And it betrays my needs. It betrays my desires for the world to see. To laugh at. To compare.

To never alleviate. Or fulfill.

I live in a house that is a gilded cage with no lock or key.

It is not of my making. I do not own it and neither does anyone else.

I wish to sell to the highest bidder.

But I cannot afford my own misery.

Reverse / 5.4.16 / 10:37-11:05

Wait, wait, no I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to be that honest. Really. I mean, I wanted to be honest, believe me, just not aloud. Make sense?

See, the thing is, I spend most of my time alone and in my head. Speaking trips me up. I forget I’m not on my couch in my apartment, staring at walls or blank screens, wishing, waiting, hoping for something different to fucking happen. I forget I’m in public and there’s these . . . rules.

So, yeah, forget I said anything. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

Though I can’t lie; the power trip feels good.

To feel that sense of awkward ooze into the stale air. To see your mouth open and close like a dying fish as you try to find the right response. There isn’t one. Stop it. Stop searching for something that isn’t there.

I’ve learned to do it. So can you!

But then again, maybe you don’t want to listen to me. I don’t know how to act in public. I pull wedgies and don’t know the meaning of heels and burp and curse and I walk a little funny. Okay, a lot funny, I’ve got this thing with my back and my legs are uneven . . .

Look at you, pretending to give a shit! Bravo!

The level of disconnect while you attempt to connect is written all over. Right there. Between your dead eyes. It’s kind of sad, actually. This is a chance to talk about something other than the weather and a Kardashian’s ass and all you can actually think is-

This bitch is crazy.

But I want you think about it. Long and hard. After we’ve finished this beer and have gone our separate ways. I want you to think about this crazy bitch and all her ramblings and if somewhere within there is some kind of fucked up sense. It may not be yours; don’t try to possess it, you fuck, this is mine, but . . . just think that maybe I have a point.


How’s your beer? Tangy? Mm. Fuck you.

You ever been so lonely, you could taste it? I have no idea what the fuck that really means, but, lord Jesus, I think I’m close. I hardly remember what it feels like. To be with someone. To have a friend I could rely on. To fuck someone. To kiss someone. It’s odd, being a grown woman who hasn’t kissed a man in years. Well, being a woman that secretly adores affection and intimacy.

Sh. Tell no one.