Cellophane wrap or sealed pack or paper bag: clutch me. Try not to drop me.
It, this, crept like damp from the doorway until there was mould along the skirting.
I consciously partook in phone calls and friendings and 56,000 FB messages.
A lie would be I was absent for it. I was absent very little of it.
And now, history book months later, all I want is that wheezing breath next to me.
Hearts suck. Seriously. I mean.
Every article I’ve read has hoped to enforce an underlying morality code that isn’t even there.
But I’m still reading them. Even though I’ve digested pagefuls of contrary, I continue to Google questions there aren’t even answers to.
And when someone holds my viewpoint, rarely, I ten second covet it. But my family/friends depend on disabled labels lately, so own mind isn’t a thing but a past relic that even the history of’s erased like a floppy: corrupt before you can do anything.
If I told you I knew what I wanted, know what I want, would you believe me? Or would it confirm your diagnosis, doctor ready?
Prescribe me what you like. It won’t change anything.
You drew a line with a finger, where the booth cushions met, said, “Don’t cross it, yeah?” I didn’t plan to, then, even as I edged closer. That was a test, a buffering at 68% permanently, no chance of an actual load.
You still sit across from the line, always on that side, to my right, and I’m usually first to move. Destroyed now I know what it’s like. Before, I relegated connections to a section in my head for fiction, religion and make believe. That third day I had to concede some times invisible isn’t absent. And now I’m absolute certain of it.
You’re cotton wool soaking me up. And each time a decry of, “Absence doesn’t fondness make,” is thrown between bottled beers, you raise a hand, and everyone knows what you’ll say without you ever saying.
Proximity. Who knew? Who really fucking did, though?
Which future point will I make decisions at and have no-one questioning competency? Maybe I’m disabled but my brain is functioning, like, 94% of the time, at my roughest guess. So I make choices, or minors steps towards possible choices, and I tell you about it, you should understand the utter privilege of being included at all; I don’t talk to anyone, now. I mostly know better than that.
I retract my permission slip to let you sift slick your POV on to me. I know my mind only. You don’t know it. It’s a best guess, and you’re guessing badly, sorry.
When I actually do it, will you stop asking if the right thing is a thing I’m thinking? Of course I’ve thought about it. A snap decision is seeming the total desirable thing, because the fallout shock, someone just doing something you didn’t expect, you have to come to terms, digest the grief. But this draw-out of my own enduring, is what sets the judgement switch to on.
Your judging makes me sick. I love you, but I could vomit earlier, at the fat of the implication I wouldn’t do right or best.
Be me now. Qualify yourself to say. Or STFU.
If I state what I am, like, do, don’t, would never, you shrug and say sure. You see the hologram sticker version of me, not standard issue, and you enjoy every glint, reflect and awful detail. You’re at the edge of each sentence I say with a tailored response like you’re listening. I mean, maybe you actually are? It seems unlikely to 96% of the cross section of people we interview about it, but unlikely isn’t off-table altogether.
If you text, said you weren’t coming back, that I’d never, I wonder what I’d do. But until a person’s in a situation, can’t nearly imagine; it’s only conjecture. No one can guess, though they try, they stab, do. And their answers, like scientific revelations, I’m meant to prescription swallow according to a personalised rule set. I take advice from doctors: anything else is ridiculous.
I shouldn’t blame the judgement-ists. They didn’t feel it.
You do not know a thing and, if you did, you still wouldn’t string a sentence eloquent, worth listening to.
I might never. True. But if I do, don’t think me wrong for not following your advice incrementally, because you wouldn’t follow it fractionally. And you know it.
Everything is perfectly photocopied, the toner picking out every grey, giving sheen only new machines can, and each internet page is perfectly clear also. Everything’s perfect, exactly, and other options are an antiquated ideal you’ve knocked out of yourselves because those you admire did.
Speak to me like a kid one more time. I double dare you to do it. Tell me what I am is wrong. Pry until you’re satisfied. And when you’re licking my bones, magnifying glass study, see the cracks?
I’m learning to clay mould myself with hands which worked better four years ago. And I’ll Polyfiller myself up, and I’ll miss evenings we spent and moments we connected, like episodes of Saved by the Bell: non-specifically. And the overall impression you’ll have left will be exclusively defined by how you treated me when my worst was cake base scraping me. Whatever you said then, sticks. And I’m sorrynotsorry. I guess next time you’ll know not to judge people whose lives you so little know.
Months from now I’ll be 70% myself again, sort of statue strong, and everyone’s scared, everyone will be. Because my own mind. Yes, that, will be a thing once more. I can’t wait for it. And the people, indispensable to me? Ones that believed me, and in me, when I didn’t. Coercion-less. How rare and fucking brilliant that is.
I phone you back because we’re never done, especially when we say we are, which is why every goodbye’s thirty minutes long; it’s impossible to package us neatly up, like a suctioned haggis, metal ties on the end to keep fresh.
I can’t compile us like an essay collection or tea set for the charity. As a Collected Works we’d maybe make sense, and we’re not nonsensical now, only, there’s always more, especially when we out loud state there won’t be.
We plan Thanksgiving in September, though you hate celebration as much as existentialism, which you hardly hate at all, just you’re not a fan of the quivering limbo it tram seat sits you in, and you can’t get off between stops. Uncertainty’s the kicker.
You text me back when the call’s missed and the call ends more than once, and four hours feels like six minutes, and I know it’s never over: I know it never is.
I want to know how to get out of quicksand and survive it. Apparently using a stick helps. Creating bigger footprints. Not struggling. Is that what my problem is?
We both know it’s not easy as exchanging skirts for other sizes or switching gluten for the wheat. There is no fix to anyone’s any of this.
“Everything’s up in the air,” you say, “for everyone,” and we’re each giving advice we don’t know how to take ourselves, even though the things we accept, button like uniform up, we tell others not to.
It’s easier to pull someone out of a pit than it is to get yourself out, I think.
We’ve survived so many things, and some we’re living with, and if there’s one person you can never bin, it’s yourself.
How do you make decisions of forever in slip-moments? When words are so untrustable. If he’d left notes, too, on slips of paper in pillow cases, in make-up cases, on your shelf behind the clock, you’d also question his authenticity like your friend’s Uggs she bought from an online shop for less than half the price.
How do you choose the right thing when everyone weighs and already your skin buckles with the weight of rigorous schedule?
How long will you question and quest?