it is dark outside again, the same way i left it, and lately when i write the pain radiates from my thumb, up to my elbow, taking its place as a vague soreness wedged in my shoulder blade. i open my laptop instead to type, and it clatters, shakes, spits when waking up the same way i do. i dont really write anymore. theres something about it that i find repulsive, because none of the words are really mine, because i just steal phrases i like from everywhere else, because it all feels more like highway robbery than the Holy act of creation writing is presumed to be. there is nothing interesting for me to say when my life is nothing but a series of elaborate imitations. i make-believe, play the part of a woman as if it could ever be true, play doctor, white-coat-costume, prop thermometer which i cannot read, play the Girlfriend Who Is Not Mentally Ill, or the Student Who Just Needs To Make It To The Weekend, or the Firstborn Child Who Never Mentions Their Transition. if im being honest im really just tired. i fantasize about attempting suicide – not completing it, just playing the part convincingly enough so that when the ambulances find me wrist-cut, vein-torn, they strap me to the gurney, handcuff me to the side, and immobilize me in the psychiatric ward – giving me an excuse to stare at a ceiling, unmoving, unmoored, for a few days more. waiting and wasting are just a few letters away from each other and i find that i am in love with both; the desire never sublimated, the hunger never satisfied, the cavernous maw never filled. when my mouth affords me the mercy of filling up with blood, i hope, at that point, my lungs have already given out, so i no longer have to hear myself whisper “i’m sorry” in that godforsaken, guttural groan i call a voice.
dayi: “i’ll spit out my teeth and give them to you”
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