I'm not sleeping right
now working right now
Not getting labwork done.
I'm now very tired in the eyes
but my legs tingle
and my stomach is bloated
and my mind foggy.
At least I have food for tomorrow. Safe foods.
I never thought about it before, but I have a mental checklist of safe foods.
Sometimes I can't eat anything else but the safe stuff.
I'm not sure if this qualifies me as still sick or not.
I hate who I am.
I feel like such a fake.
How can I be eating disordered when I am such a good pretender of the healthy and happy lifestyle?
I feel like Hamlet, who by pretending to be mad becomes mad.
By pretending to be sane I've passed all the standards of society. I'm one of them.
And I hate that person too.
I've appeared so happy lately, but the poisonous nectar drips deeper in my veins.
The cravings are worsening.
I feel so close to relief.
So close to sleep.
But sleep... and death... and the end to these feelings are not even existent in my dreams.
I don't know what I'm dreaming of in the precious little time I gave myself this week.
I've lived at coffee shops, but haven't bought a cup of coffee for a long time. I don't drink coffee. I like instead being so close to the thing I desire and not getting it.
I remember once I was a character on a page.
I drank whiskey slower than a dripping faucet would fill a pint class.
I fooled people into thinking I was smiling, even in fiction.
I was a snake. One of those animals that hunts helpless prey. And consumes.
Its all consuming me
stay beatiful
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"He calls himself Lucky, he says.
ReplyDeleteWell I’ve never met such an unlucky man, to presume himself 'lucky.'
Lucky lifts his glass of whiskey to his mouth, and lets it linger on his lips. He doesn’t take a sip, but lowers the glass and tastes the whiskey his lips soaked in. It’s an agonizing way to get drunk. He’ll be here for hours before he feels the effects, if any at all. People will be strewn in this bar over countertops and stools, barely hanging on the doors, and he’ll still be working on the same glass. The lone man at the bar, eyes only blood-shot from the smoke-filled air, steady as ever in a melting and decreasingly lucid world around him.
A glass of whiskey should be seduced slowly, he says.
I look at him, not knowing how to respond to his pretentious wisdom as he takes an elaborate drag off his cigar.
What an asshole."
Was this the one you're referring to? Ironically, it was one of the stories I wasn't writing about you...consciously.
..Thanks for letting me write about you.
I do think I'm an asshole
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