Me… and another day…
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you might stomp on it. It’s the Day blood. Something’s wrong with it. I was never a good little girl, and I got worse after the incidents. Little neglected me grew up sullen and boneless, shuffled around a group of lesser relatives- second cousins and great aunts and friends of friends- stuck in a series of rotting homes. Sleepless nights left me with bulging pockets under my eyes, drunk landlady eyes. My face- blank- with a grudging curve of the lips where a smile should be. Maybe.
I was not a lovable child, and I’d grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.
I pushed a foot out from under my sheets, but couldn’t bring myself to connect to the floor. I am, I guess, depressed. I guess I’ve been depressed for about 6 years. I can feel a better version of me somewhere in there- hidden behind a liver or attached to a bit of spleen within my stunted, childish body- a me that’s telling me to get up, do something, grow up, move on. But the meanness usually wins out.
Finally, I pulled myself out of bed with a stage effect groan and fell to the floor with the sheets still wrapped around my half naked warm body… Pushing unkempt hair away from my face and rubbing my eyes and temples. Something was hammering my head. A few minutes later I got up and wandered to the front of my house. I rent a small worn-out apartment within a loop of other small worn-out apartments… My neighbourhood doesn’t even have a name, it’s so forgotten. It’s called Over There That Way. A weird subprime area full of dead ends and cat crap.
It’s cold. Grey clouds had gathered over my head…
I always wore a cloud over my head…
Who cares. As long as I make it eventually.
People are so selfish.
I guess that makes it even.