March 1, 2016 § Leave a comment

My eyes don’t focus. I am a shell. My head collapses into my body, the dark and rotting flesh inside of me. It’s a slow and painful process, this process of dying. I see it inside my body, working its way outward. One day it will show on my face and I will envelop myself in snow until I freeze. Will it work?

I am cellophane. Fake and manufactured and easily manipulated. Mrs. Cellophane. I remember in school when I was maybe 11, I was obsessed with Chicago. I went to see the play when it was showing in Toronto after seeing the film having come out and my parents, avid musical lovers, had bought the soundtrack, which I played daily for…I have no idea.

I want to have a defined role. I want to be something. I can’t say I’m the bitch or the outcast or the villain, but I know I veer too close on numerous occasions.

On the floor, listening to Dire Straits. I want to crawl under my bed, but I’m supposed to be a human, awake and conscious and productive. All I want, all in my mind that I could want is lying down on the hard marble floor, dark and hidden from everything. I want to cry onto the floor, without the clean up, pill and drink myself to oblivion until I’m gone.

What happened? I had a change of mind a few days ago where I wanted to start becoming a living person. Fully present, listening, not suicidal when my brain starts to go into overdrive as it is wont to do when I’m sober and clean, telling me all of the horrible parts of myself.

I am a creature. An X. I am not a human. I don’t know if I want to be. Any of the improvements I should see in my life, last for far too short a time to make an impact in my brain. My brain is broken. I am broken. What is the solution?

I am in a coat, with the biggest bottle of Canadian Club. I am already wasted and no one is or will be at the house. I can’t feel my skin. I am numb in skin and mind and I am falling into the browning, dead garden. Remove my coat, continue to drink until my brain shuts down. Did I write a note? I would like to think that I am small and beautiful when I’d go, but why would I go unless I’m a disgusting wreck? I imagine though, that it will all work, that I won’t be revived with terrible consequences to live with. Just gone. Frozen in the snow, holding my licquor across my chest like a rose in a coffin.



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