04.03.03 . 7:49 a.m.
200: Intimacy

why does my life so often feel like a slither of entrails pouring from a wound in my belly?

with both my hands I grasp my wet guts, trying to force them back in.

why does my life so often feel like a wild black lake under the midnight thunder where i am drowning, waves crashing over my face as i try to breathe.

why does my life feel like a war i am fighting alone?

why are you fighting me?

why arent you with me?

if i die this instant will you be more content with the morning news?

will your coffee taste better?

i am not your fate.

i am not your government.

i am not your FBI.

i am not even your mother, not your father, or your nightmare or your health.

i am not a fence, not a wall.

i am not the law or the actuarial tables of your insurance broker.

i am a woman with my guts loose in my hands, howling and it is not because i committed hara-kiri.

i suggest either you cook me or sew me back up!

i suggest you walk into my pain as into the breaking waves of an ocean of blood, and either we will both drown or we will climb out together and walk away.


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