I keep pushing because I’m know there’s something under there, I know there is something just out of reach that I can get to, if I’m only not afraid long enough to pull it out. It comes through in dreams, in half formed sobs, in nameless achings. It tells me I belong somewhere I hate, somewhere I can’t understand. This is how it comes out-

In the breathless waking in the morning grayness, sheets tangled and sweaty, nobody there but myself, watching the blood disappear and feeling the pain fade. See, it wasn’t real…

In the realization that I have memories I cannot recall, if there can be such a thing.

In the taste of something that is familiar even though I’ve never tasted it before.it wasn’t real…

I keep pushing because I know there’s something there, something else, even if I don’t want to know what it is.


I’m so fucking cold. Just cold. I’m really tired of being cold. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night and being cold. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night screaming. I’m tired of waking up in the middle of the night. I’m tired of waking up. I’m tired.

This smart ass friend of mine suspects that she understands something of the nature of what makes me this way, what makes me incapable of feeling my own body for very long, unless I’m asleep, and I’m not sure that counts. I’ve asked her what she thinks, but she says it’s for me to figure out – she wouldn’t dare. She just gets it, she says.

Of course I’m better at figuring her out. I know why she doesn’t have bad dreams. She sees too many things all at once, she sees it all. Her pain comes from not being able to turn it off, to close her eyes. She reaches out and feels the pain of a hundred thousand souls, looking for the one true pulse and touch of the one she loves, who is out there. Somewhere. Unknown to her, but palpable, on a finer level.

She takes her hurt, and rearranges it, propitiates and propositions it, and its all laid out in neon patterns to her eyes.

She looks at it all in the face every day.


I’m sitting here in this sad little space waiting for something to break out. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if I want to know, but I always feel it there, feel something there, right on the edges, on the sidelines, under the surface, something waiting to get out.

But usually I have it all under control.

But you, you know. Somehow you know what it is, but you won’t say. You have some knowledge you’re not giving away, but it’s not fair, because it’s some knowledge of me. Or not me, but of Things Like Me, of how things like this work. You have a key I would kill for, but you think it’s a key to only pain, and you won’t let me have it.

I can only imagine your nightmares, except you don’t seem to have any. But you should, you ought to. Maybe yours just aren’t as loud, because you know a control I never learned.


Suddenly I’m hungry. Silly really. I woke up, after forcing eight hours of sleep on myself, and stayed in bed as long as I could. I got up, made coffee, drank coffee, got by for fourteen hours on just the calories from the milk I added and sheer stubborness.

And now I’m hungry. I stand in the kitchen and eat crackers and cheese standing up, dropping cheese on myself, like I’m starving. I eat cold meat leftover from last weekend. I drink out of the milk carton. I eat ice cream from the freezer, standing up. I clutch the carrots like I haven’t eaten in days.

I have, but I feel like I haven’t.

I don’t know why I’ve been doing this to myself, this not eating. I like the way the hunger makes me feel, makes my belly curl in on itself, makes my sight strange and my fingers stranger, makes my body further away from me.

Maybe if I don’t feed it it will just go away.