Notes from my Black
I’m cold but I have the heat cranked. It’s not drafty and I have 37 blankets… and I’m not sick. It’s just me. I can’t make myself sleep and since it that magical time of night where I am supposed to bid adieu… I am torn between a memory of worthiness and happiness and the present. I remember feeling content and feeling what comes along with it. I won’t allow myself to feel it .
I keep forgetting that this is not my diary to flit about and talk about doing dishes or my acid trip that ended up at Subway. This is about being broken and doing my best to make peace with it. It rattles the bars and blocks out the light. This is enough for me. I’m knocking off rust and living below.
Those that don’t know me, won’t. Those that do, may find they didn’t. I am continuing to be my truth and allowing myself to float. I will continue to make mistakes. I will continue to hate myself for each and every one. Thanks mom.