Cinnamon

Singing along to a recording of myself singing Cinnamon after my seventh drink in the first hour. The windows are dark, it's nighttime. It wasn't a new song discovery, it was a script - written by god (as we understood Him). It's a narration of the things that make me so sad I can't help but stare at the same spot on the wall and think about coloring in the connected lines that make the shape of Texas. It makes me wonder why I'm even still here.

So sad, all I can do is isolate and worry about the future as if I'm already in the ER waiting room and I find out he's dead and I ruined everything and I goddam knew it the whole time - I knew I killed someone, I just didn't know when it happened. What a b***h. Accusatory eyes in denial of the true demons that take steps and do the work for me when I'm climbing the mountain we all must climb, every day. Everyone can do it, and they do. I have extra help from the dark energy I've collected over the years from the grains of sand flipped over and over in every board-game timer I've ever flipped, before every grain could reach the bottom. I told you I was a professional at avoiding death by cheating my way through every relationship (not romantic cheating, but who's to say anything about romance nowadays). 

My truth is I'm a liar. I get what I want because I know how to play the game, but again in light of cheating-  I had expert help since the moment my father held me for the first few seconds of my life. That was it. If you expected more, you're greedy.

I don't trust people because I don't trust myself. 

I don't trust myself because I know He Who Walks The Earth is behind my eclipsed pupils.

My entire body is rotting. No, I don't have food stuck in my teeth, I have an absence of any material right smack in the front of my mouth. I can't hold anyone without hurting them, when you're in my arms I lose myself to codependent DNA strands that somehow became intertwined with yours. It's natural. We all have this problem, but I guess by now I can say, with confidence, that I must be celibate for the rest of my life because I curse anyone and anything that comes my direction. 

But this can't be happening.

As soon as I start to feel the ground form underneath my feet, the rug gets pulled out from under everyone else. I just hope with the next new moon, that she looks at me, and tells me, "she's here too." 

I don't mourn properly. Selling your body for alcohol at 18 years old ("so you were prostituting yourself?") and skipping the memorial because of one thing. I was too fat and I wanted to get high so I left her, again. I left her, I used her, I did her hair wrong, I called her names in the back of my mind, I was jealous, I was inspired and I broke my only promise. I curse everyone, but at this point, it almost sounds like she was prepared for the end of the world before any scientist knew, and something that ethereal couldn't be killed in the bullshit war over who's the prettiest and who has the most money, and it makes more and more sense every day that my instincts are not wrong. 

I don't want to live, but dying is cliche.