hysterical and useless

there are ghosts I play with sometimes instead of sleep or dreaming. I count the time that’s passed since we were people to each other and taunt myself with memories and thoughts of scenes we might have staged had things been different then. a cast of ghouls I choose to love and miss when forgetting is the only path to forge forward: I know what I need but sit still with the tools, unwilling to pull down the facade that meant enough to make me believe in something shared and sacred.

the pulse of the alarm exorcises any friends I made sleeping. my body is tired and I move slowly. at my desk I drink tea and listen to the same song over and over, relishing the metaphor of the crushed insect dreaming of growing wings as it falls apart. people I love need to talk about hurting and I want to hear and share the weight but in the mirror I am frail. my friend is selling clothes at the store up the road. she reminds me of my responsibility to listen to myself. I buy her coffee and she holds my hand.

I try to write and laugh at the string of words I’ve spat on the screen. every day a vain attempt to make meaning of a mind that won’t change and a world that doesn’t want to wake up. nothing new and all the same tomorrow. I wash my sheets and hang them in the rain. hysterical and useless.