Molten streams of pernicious failures I've succumbed to in vagaries being found in actuality
I'm so tired today. I lost my shit earlier. Just because he looked at me and asked what we are gonna do about this mess. I thought I don't know. I've been in this bed since Friday evening. Why are you asking me? There are a million things I'd rather do than think about this mess, death not being left out as an option.
Yes, I would rather die. Than to see the full extent of the damage done when this shit-slide my life is on comes to a halt. To watch it all fall, and watch their faces, streaked with tears. To let them down... Because of all the people I have failed, only they are worthy.
So my eyes are squeezed tight, pressed such that a million tears behind each lid produces only a half a drop of salt saturated despair. But still I look through the screen that filters any bad thing from my sight and they laugh and it sounds like tinkling glass, musically lifted on a merciful breeze. I breath in the deep amber warmth of his empathy and his kindness dances through the crackling leaves like autumn turning to winter while he warms souls with his wonder. I gasp as summer heat burns through my heart and it smells like an infusion of chai and oranges has lit the world on fire with imagination. Cool clear and crisp, sprays of inspiration as refreshing as his smile, crooked and still so full of innocence drench my fears for a time. And my eyes closed so tight can still smell the crush of fresh grass under her feet, her freshly laundered skirts dusting the pollen from the tallest rushes. The world she lives in is new, just born. Red may be the color of her someday, for indeed she can be so fierce. But for now, like the touch of petals upon skin, her love breezes through every pore, not passionate but pure, untainted, as the most comforting life affirming hug ever given. Myself I return to, my face wet with anguish.
Sitting up, cotton over my head and the cool linoleum swishes beneath my feet. To the other side, though I have failed, they are not gone. Sleeping gently, silken tresses upon each pillow, they do not yet know how utterly they i have let them down.
In the freezing hostility of a jagged moonbeam slitted into angry blades, I breathe a haggard relief that it has not come yet. I have yet to fall before them, as they watch a mother slain by her own good intentions and gutted by her crystalline dreams. They have yet to cry tears of what used to be or how far away the good times have become. Up in the night sky, one by one, counting down each star blinks out for eternity and I press fists to my mouth, knowing no sound of warning will make it any easier for any of us. Biting knuckles white with fear and rage, biting and trying to swallow the bitter darkness of a thousand ethereal deaths calling to my soul. Not yet. I may belong. But not yet.
I turn away, tear streaks dried on my cheeks. The dog snores in my bed and my love does too. I write this down. I think of the contents of the cold box that holds dead things, laughing because I'm still trying to make the dubiousness of plotting a days dinner fit into the language of a spirit that is crushed and tattered like skin in the jaws of a massive dog. Of course it doesn't fit. Where else would I hide, but the bliss of domesticity and every real minute, while awaiting the end of my future. Here, in the kitchen, laundry, dinners, and homework, and walks to the bus stop, here is where I wait for that storm that brings on a shit avalanche, knowing it comes and that I am completely powerless in its assurity.
I wait. No tears left. For now. There are a million more tears for every later that needs them. Now I go wake up the little deities and pray the big ones don't feel too chipper today.
That's what I'm gonna do about it. It's all I can do.