She was fun,

the words roll off the tongue.

It isn't the first time I've heard those words before

and it won't be the last time, that's for sure.

She was fun.

Tone tinged with longing, a nostalgic feel for yesteryear.

It's still strange to hear my friends refer to this past version of myself, in the past tense.

Was. She was.

She.

So removed from the present.

Another Being.

Another person.

I mourn her sometimes.

Carefree. Thoughtless. Thankless. Hopeless. Restless. Dangerous.

But she was fun.

Take a deep a breathe.

Hold it in.

Let the oxygen do its thing.

I am sick of feeling like I'm not being heard.

So many areas of my life, my family, my marriage, my career - everything always falls on deaf ears.

I can't tell you how many times,

I say a line,

only to be ignored.

I make a point, an observation....share my take.

and then...nothing. Just nothing.

I am frankly fucking over it.

Am I not being clear enough?

Do I need to stop being so fucking nice?

It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.

I gotta stop editing myself and just be honest.

I'm done dancing around shit.

It ain't working because no one is listening.

I thought I had time,

time to get over it, get over you, over the guilt, over my fears.

Over my dreams.

I thought I had time,

time to find purpose.

To be a part of the solution, to be a voice, to be the change.

I thought I had time,

to get back to school, learn a thing or two or three,

make a difference in this society.

I thought I had time,

to spend with my Dad.

To heal, to mend. To be a better daughter.

I thought I had all this time,

to run into you, to fall in love again.

But I spent all this time

thinking I had time

and now I waste time

realizing I've run out of time

instead of maximizing my time.

And now I pass a lot of time

counting time

and doing the math

to figure out

just how much time I really have left.

I pinch my thumb and pointer fingers together, bring them to my nose and smell.

Fish.

It's Fishy.

I pinch the screen on my phone, scroll the jobs section, and smell.

Fish.

It's Fishy.

I think of the project I'm attempting to complete.

It's not so fishy, but it certainly smells.

It's pungent. Everything around me feels pungent.

It's neither good, nor bad, but strong.

I wish for the life of me I could be as strong as this smell.

As strong as my colleague is strong-headed.

As strong as my partner is at his job.

I feel like I'm floundering here!

Like the fish I served my cat, pinched between my fingers.

But it wasn't flounder. It was tuna.

I feel like vacuum sealed tuna

stuck in an airless container,

shelf stable

with an expiration date.

Ripped open, I'm stinky.

Tonight

Driving home I felt nauseous.

I'm not sure if it was due to the lack of sleep. Lack of Sunshine. Anxiety.

The fact that immediately after I told you "You look pretty tonight" I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Like I was objectifying you.

Maybe it was the cigarette I smoked. Desperate for dopamine. It felt good, that first drag. Then it felt like nothing.

"Your hair...you just look really pretty tonight."

Doubling down. I've already said too much. Can't help myself, can't stop. What am I looking for here? Them to tell me, "Why thank you! You just made my day!"

No. Not everyone is fishing for unwanted compliments. Especially not after 19 hours of enduring another day.

My mind feels heavy. My body feels worn. Clutching the steering wheel, driving home in silence, I feel alone.

I tried calling two friends who live on the West Coast, hoping to vent about my day. My week, though it's only Tuesday, feels like it's dragging. Everything feels hard.

I wanted to tell them what I felt when I told you you were pretty, the absolute indifference in your voice.

"Maybe it's because I shaved and I look five years younger."

But instead I'm met with silence. And I'm still nauseous.

The cigarette, it's making you feel sick. Why did you think this would bring you relief? Why do you reach for the things that can kill you?

You'd think by now I'd be comfortable being uncomfortable. But it's already been a long winter. And my routine has been shattered. And I made the mistake of taking on more and more to keep myself busy. I forget to finish the things I've started. I get frustrated when things get hard. I fail to practice, practice getting better.

It takes practice. All I need is practice.

I talked to myself, driving home tonight, as my stomach turned and my chest grew tight.

You can do this, you can do this. It's gotta be the cigarette.

Breathe.

I take a deep breath, right now. This very second.

Because I am filled with such fucking rage and anger.

That I finally find a moment of lucidity.

And the words flow out of me in a way that makes sense,

and helps me process

and understand the mess.

And I hit copy and paste.

Just in case

The very thing inspiring me to write

Failed me.

And failed it did.

Maybe it was my fault,

for exploding in a tiny window labeled "bio",

for putting my energy into that moment

into something not intended

for such a sentence.

Oh well, I must take a breathe. Let the anger settle.

Learn from this.

control v

Dum spiro spero - that's what replaced the prose,

the very words

that helped me rise to this occasion.

Dum spiro spero - While I breathe, I hope

Well, I hope to never make that mistake again.

It's a creeping sensation.

That starts in the dark. With the dark. Out of the dark.

It is the dark.

The darkness creeps in, day by day, until it's arrived.

Here.

All consuming.

I'm here, too.

Wallowing.

Floating.

Foggy.

Looming.