It’s festering, and it poisons everything. Often I locate my body in this swinging swerving nightmare land and I can climb into it for a moment of blisspanic, the sun looping endlessly, a drunken, glaring, arcing mess and I’m in the center, worlds spinning, head spinning. Golden tracks, spirals without intent, it ran off its course months ago and it’s just as lost as you. One sun, six suns, crazy fierce hot bright.
In the mornings, now, my chest runs slick with sweat, the fleshy backs of my knees are sticky, slimy. My elbow creases are sliding, skin against skin, I ooze with salt and clammy chills.
I float in and out, like this. Sometimes okay, mostly not. I use my klonopin modestly. One week until death.
And no, not literal. Death of something, a part of me, which part, I don’t know. I am so overwhelmed by the thought of admitting to this hospital program that my nauseous vomit ought to go the same way as the sweat of my morning hot flashes, seeping and oozing through my pores. I smell death. Decay is in the air and this part is not long for this world. But I don’t know yet which part it will be. I so desperately want to be whole, a vision of health, I want to make everyone happy. But I can’t remain fat, gain fat, that is impossible, a complete and total incapability, non-plausability.
So what the fuck. Fuck.
