Twenty Eight : A Title That Shall Be Avoided

It’s been a busy month; work, Squid, drinking (socially, not alone) – the month slipped quickly by me. Somewhere in the blur of the last two weeks I wrote this… Eventually I’ll get caught up with myself.

 

Get out of my fucking head. Post haste. I demand it.

It’s been over a solid month since I thought or uttered sentences structured around you and the lack of you in my life. But today I stumbled.

I stumbled and I must have been jumped by the thought of you, shoving a knife in my face – your wallet, give me your fucking wallet, man.

But I have faith in my ability to shut you back out. This is not the first time I’ve relapsed into love with you. You are not the first woman, neh, girl – for if you were a real woman, you would have stuck around to make a man out of me – to leave, to jump, to take my wallet and step back into the dark. You will not be the last, I can only assume, but thus far you have hurt the most.

Congratulations on that.

I still have your box of abandoned things. I refer to it as “the box of Grace’s shit” – mostly to give the impression that I am no longer sad about our sudden dissolution . The contents of your box of shit is something I can scarcely recall, fearing that cataloging its insides, studying it’s liver and kidney and heart, would somehow open a Pandora’s box of loneliness and despair. The sight of the thing makes my flesh cold and my hair stand on end. I’ve been tempted to burn it for it’s crimes of black magic against my soul, or toss it into a large body of water and watch it sink, irretrievable by someone like me. Someone who can’t swim. Though on the other hand, part of me holds out for hope, that I should keep the box in case we ever do cross paths again in some way, or if all else fails, hand it off to Cook or some other mutual friend/acquaintance, wipe my hands of it and say “this concerns me no longer”. I believe in the end I’ll settle on that idea.

This is good, this is helping. I’m easing back into a soft lull, the panic no longer building in my chest as my skull fragments and breaks apart, my head expanding like a balloon, cherry Koolaid water pouring from my eyes, nose, and ears, mouth agape as I gasp for air. Breath in, breath out – my chest loosens, no longer feeling like my skin was shrinking, forcing my ribs to close in around my lungs.

Either way, I’ll admit it one more time, just to get it out of my system.

I miss you Grace.

I can spend all day talking about the things about you that drove me out of my mind, but I have to be honest – I could have lived with those things forever, they were endearing, personal. They made you seem as human and flawed as I am.

I hope you’re doing well though, happy and fortunate and lucky.

All my love.

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