the annual bruise convention
april j. in our kitchen
"I AM MORE MAN THAN YOU'LL EVER BE
AND MORE WOMAN THAN YOU'LL EVER GET."
dear life,
when i work i like to think as little as possible and it's about the only time i get any peace. anna sits on my bed with tequila for her and painkillers for me and we tell stories because she can't sleep and i can't rest. i refresh cnn in the middle of the night to see who else has died and i feel this drive then and always of I'M ALIVE, i'm scared shitless and hysterically happy for no reason except that i am alive and it is now.
even though i'm a ridiculous child lately i feel much more like a woman than a girl, and on days when it fits i wonder why i never wanted to grow up. sometimes i touch my hips just to make sure, sometimes i just know at the strangest times, like when i'm carrying groceries home or looking someone directly in the eye, or sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching the water run off my legs. this idea of being full is in me, it's in my handshake, so when i feel it, you do too.
i'm drinking red wine and reading politics, scribbling in my journal. things have been good, i am good good fine good, only just now i turned on the sad chick music and resisted the urge to hold my head in my hands and feel pretty fucking sorry for myself over nothing. romantic karma.
i feel so stupid because you know i KNEW, i knew it would happen like this and i can't believe i let myself get so vulnerable over something that was so clearly nothing to everybody else. it just felt like sliding into magic, and i thought maybe things could just be easy for once. possibility is such a beautiful drug. i'm still waiting as if he's coming. who "he" is isn't really important, it's the waiting that's the problem, because fuck that! i am damn good company even alone. i feel a little lost in my life, like being stuck in a washing machine, everything is familiar but the colors are spinning all around your head. eventually all that's going to be left of my heart is a postage stamp, a half tank of gas and a little brown box with RETURN TO SENDER written all over it. and the dust i kick up walking away from it. the wine has started speaking for me, and it's a sentimental fucker, so i better stop here. it'll be no big thing in the morning. and for now i'll just let it be.
anything but love,
g