There’s a special kind of sadness that comes between the moon taking shape, quietly, and you have this feeling of being part of some inhuman secret, something between you and the skies, behind the scenes.
I am staring at my laptop screen thinking of how every second i think im not doing anything i am actively decomposing. I have also the queasy feeling that consuming content, especially without theme or form, just eternal influx of floating information, captured in a fleeting meaning, gone from your eyes before you can think how it changed your brain, how many neurons were numbed by the flash of hot rhythm and synthetic skits and semi-hot people shaking ass for views and only maybe money- it makes you decompose faster.
The more you eat, the more you decay.
I am stuck. It is a month after my breakup. I do not miss the boy exactly, i miss the sex and the conversations and the convenience and the dependable feeling of having somebody to wrap yourself around, the same feeling you get when you have a skeleton. Biologically, sure, everyone has one, but tell me why i feel so limp. An unease of skin. Float of fleshy junk. They would eat me last in an apocalypse. The helpless, hopeless stink of me. You only want to eat what will put up a real fight, you only want to eat something living.
I would have to see all the others die before me. Only the strongest, will remain, the one who eats everyone else, and me, in the end. Then i will give my body without ceremony. Here, my flesh, my dreams. I was watching, the whole time. I watched everything. Now here.
he was yummy but he didn’t get me, not really, i mean, he did, he got all the surfaces right, but sometimes when i was alone i would see these impossible bits, creaky lyrics, curlicues of desire, memories throbbing to solidify, once again, to come to my lips as foam, and it would scare me, how much i’m hiding from myself just so a yummy young boy will love me, will find me bite-sized, not too much for him, not aerial, without wings, without too much longing. Boys hate that, in girls, longing. They hate girls who are not satisfied with their lives because they will always want something more than what they can give. Because they know there is a world inside dreaming, and no matter how many dark years bleach you down like a fish trapped in a lightless bowl, it’s just not okay to give it up. It’s not cool, not cool at all, to give up on dreaming.
Nobody dreams like a girl who never had one come true. Or almost. I don’t know which is worse, never knowing, and longing forever, or knowing in snippets, so your longing is forever polluted.
****
Technically i am actively in stage who cares of phase suck my tits of traditional grief, but really if you ask me i dont care that much about crying it out and moving on and becoming whole again. The main thing i care about is never ever getting hurt again.
Sometimes his face comes up but quickly it goes into the brackish waters of my sleepy brain. It is dark inside, and there are no timelines. Day and night blurs. Every possible thing that can happen does happen, under the surface. Murphy’s little universe inside a music box, inside another music box, smoothed under layers of shifting waters, the creatures come up miniscule and dance with each other in patterns that the pathetic people of earth will encode into good music or good porn, point is it will touch your soul.
I was supposed to watch.
I fell asleep.
***
i think of calling Kea.
it is late.
he seems like somebody who picks your phone feeling genuinely grateful and happy.
his voice will feel like marshmallows, trickling through the microphone to wake my comatose cheek, the phone pressed like a prayer against me.
before i even know his happiness, i envy it.
i think of calling Kea, i don’t do it. I can’t watch. It’s late. Something will trickle out, something uneasy, a shock trapped in perfect balance inside the threat of my lopsided bones, something i dont want to face.
I think of calling Kea then i dont do it. It would be nice to let him know that i dont slur all the time and i’ve got jokes and when i’m high enough maybe even a handful of extraterrestrial dreams. It’s not okay, never ever okay to stop dreaming.
and then i’m black asleep. I mean, i soon will be.
Before i fall i think i am calling Kea, asking about his day so i can tell him about mine, something made up and awfully charming.
i ate strawberries and cream, mushed them against my girl lips. And, i am so sorted as an individual, i managed an evening trip to the beach, the one we don’t even have in this city. I did not hurt anyone today. I did not depend on porn to not feel lonely. I put sticky notes around the house, possibilities. No cigarettes. No pills. I had a solid bowel movement, rhythmic turds, no splatter.
What about you, Kea?
***
Diary of a Crazy Gal 
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