of digging

Oh, fuck, I don’t know.

This isn’t really writing today, I must confess; this is more akin to bloodletting. I need to draw the words out of my stupid veins with a fucking thumbtack because this is what I’m supposed to do, right? THIS is what I said I wanted, so I have to write, if only because I will not be a liar in this regard as well.

I don’t feel like a person anymore. Or maybe I just don’t want to be a person anymore, so I choose not to feel it. I am a dig site. I am layers and layers of badlands atop of peanut butter cracker crumbs and ripped pages from notebooks and what I wouldn’t give for someone to excavate me.

For someone else to find these remnants of bones and teeth and set it back together correctly, you know?

I’m just still so sad. History is quicksand, if you’re not careful, and I am fucking fucking fucking stuck here, trying at least not to flail too wildly.

I’M STILL SO SAD.

But what do you do? Do you climb on a roof somewhere and announce it to the townsfolk and hope that someone has an extra magic elixir in their satchel? Or do you sit alone in the dark and navigate health insurance, sliding scales, this and that specialty, does my trauma count as Trauma?, why is this happening to me?, why don’t I just go back to sleep and try again tomorrow?

I sleep a lot lately.

And I don’t know, but I think I might be worried. I think I thought I was setting my own path forward brick by brick, but when I look up and look around, I think I have actually constructed walls. I think I might be burying myself and I don’t know how to stop. I don’t feel like I don’t deserve to be buried, after all, and isn’t that the problem?

I was beautiful upon a single day and I cannot get that day off of my chest, I cannot get out from beneath the memory of it, I cannot unravel the tangle I have made in my own head trying to figure out what I did to become ugly instead.

When I dare, I dream these days of a little house by the sea. I dream of lots of space inside for Clem to wander and explore. I dream of coffee and sweaters and sunshine and never feeling cold ever again. I dream of sitting on the sand and letting the sounds of the ocean drown out all the venom in my brain.

If I am to be buried, I dream, at least, of being the foundation for your sandcastle.

Published by Dani

I like breakfast, marine mammals, Star Wars, comedy, the song "Dead Man's Party," and Halloween musical revues at theme parks. Let's be friends!

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