i wrote a beautiful post about oedipus rex and lost it in half-sleep. so, a shitty replacement. a shitty outpouring of the still-frozen heart.

been avoiding blogging like i've been avoiding dealing with my shit. friends' dramas to distract me, klonopin to make the shit in my head stop, wine and 12-hr naps and dresses with tights and roly poly dogs at the dog park.

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i have to feel to learn to feel and learn that it will not kill me. only before i learn that, i am quite sure i will die of it. hot thick bubbling shame and gasping loneliness and red-faced embarrassment and fear and anger and shame and itchy irritation and oh and oh the breathless liquid plaster shame. and i cannot breathe and i cannot even cry.

how does one feel and not want to die? have i been an android all these years?

and who, for fuck's sake, has robbed me of this? and as much as i want to stab them i stab myself instead. because that is all i know how to do. i cannot take care of this body that does not belong to me.

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i am afraid to be a real person because i have never been more than a ghost. my lines have always blurred. i have never been my own. i do not understand solidity and i withdraw in fear.