Again, I’m in a bed that’s not mine. I’m thinking about dead ends and frayed knots and tense conversations.
I’m thinking about the devil, how we met up in a dining hall to talk about God, how I thought it would make him want to change. I’m thinking about the times I showed up unannounced. I’m thinking about how everything feels like foreshadowing.
A playlist on loop. How I fucked someone as soon as I landed in March and how we’d never even kissed before. How it feels like he’s been right in front of me this whole time and how I want nothing to do with him. How I wish that were true.
How I keep finding myself in an empty parking lot in the middle of the night. How my gums feel raw when I’ve had too much salt and not enough water. How I feel so unlovable and so capable at the same time.
How writing it down lightens the load but frees up space for more worry. I am so full of worry. And dread. And rumination. How nothing is alive in the dark anymore. How the shadows cling to me like mosquitoes, how flailing only makes it worse.
I’m drowning in a puddle. How long until the meds wear off. How could I let this happen again. How much this bed sucks but it’s not the worst place I’ve ever been. It’s not even close.
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