I know I'm just falling to peices.
Hush hush say your hands as you whisper your jeans up your thighs and button them. They didn't fit four months ago. You don't exactly know when your body melted off far enough that these rested loosely at the waist. You don't know when you heated your wax legs until you could work them thin and smooth, stretch out your torso over your bone wick. But you remember the thoughts which spun down the drain as you braced in the shower: These behaviors will not just go away.
But it doesn't matter. In fact, it isn't enough. You can still think, your brain chugging slowly around the fact that they euthanized your cat. Your mother tells you flatly over the phone, and you close your eyes against your salty tears. Renal failure, says she. Ketones in the blood. Rotted out teeth and gums. Malnourished. Too much pain. Nothing we could do.
It sounds shockingly familiar.
You euthanize your voice. It shrivels up and dies in your throat, stuck there like a swallow of dry bread. You drink a glass of water, but the corpse is wedged there, half-way to your stomach.
You'll throw it up later.
So you pinch your thighs until they welt, and your shakes make managing your smart phone impossible. You try to hang up, but hit speaker, then 7. You are dizzy when you stand up, vision quiting on you in a swirl of reds and purples and blacks. The more you try to think of something else, you think of the empty space left by death. Never again. Never again. Never again. You're glad they put him out of his pain. You're glad that you didn't have to say goodbye.
You just wonder if they will put you down, too, when your kidneys fail and your agony immobilizes you.
Hush, hush...
(I lost the game.)
But it doesn't matter. In fact, it isn't enough. You can still think, your brain chugging slowly around the fact that they euthanized your cat. Your mother tells you flatly over the phone, and you close your eyes against your salty tears. Renal failure, says she. Ketones in the blood. Rotted out teeth and gums. Malnourished. Too much pain. Nothing we could do.
It sounds shockingly familiar.
You euthanize your voice. It shrivels up and dies in your throat, stuck there like a swallow of dry bread. You drink a glass of water, but the corpse is wedged there, half-way to your stomach.
You'll throw it up later.
So you pinch your thighs until they welt, and your shakes make managing your smart phone impossible. You try to hang up, but hit speaker, then 7. You are dizzy when you stand up, vision quiting on you in a swirl of reds and purples and blacks. The more you try to think of something else, you think of the empty space left by death. Never again. Never again. Never again. You're glad they put him out of his pain. You're glad that you didn't have to say goodbye.
You just wonder if they will put you down, too, when your kidneys fail and your agony immobilizes you.
Hush, hush...
(I lost the game.)