NOT KEEPING SCORE

Shit, I am dying. All talk of acceptance, and finally: put to the test. Right here, right now: death is upon me. I lie, unable to move, my head a collision of silence.

Stinging whiteness licks me with her pin-tounge as I try to let go. Relax into it she hums, consuming deathjaws over, wave-heavy, I try, try, but I can’t exhale; I try, try, to give over then lungs clench and I cannot surrender to death. Either I’m not ready to go, or I’m still afraid to die.

What’s the difference?

and something else you know what else huh? Too much reading of the Eastern philosophy is dangerous for one little Western girl.

* * *

You’d expect to be able to get sleep in 3 days. You just would. You would. But apparently you belong to a family of snorers.

Night One: room with Auntie, who snores at Volume 10.

Night Two: resort to sleeping near Cousin (who’s on couch) on floor of family room.
Your dear Cus, however, click-click-clicks from the back of his throat like a rabid clock.

Night Three: You plan to have Cousin sleep on mattress in room with Auntie (the two, creating a symm!phony of night music!) and you on the couch, but a surprise beer pong party puts you back in bed with Auntie-pie.

You begin to think you’re asking too much, you light sleeper you, so you get up at 1am and join the party. Silly you! You’ve been going about this all wrongly wrong! Change paradigm, when in Rome! Grab trail mix, hit doobie! Chat-chat-chat it up! Stand up, where’d gravity go? watch weed haunt the empty corridors of your brain, angry old demons reawoken vaporize then thicken into sooty despair, mix dangerously with meds, you take a step 1, step2, st3p andyou’re fa lli n
g (n
ow)! donkdonk head on the corner of the door face=awoodbite
ohmygod don’t f a i n te v e r y t h i n g {w h i t e

* * *
I wake up. to under God’s crockpot inferno awash his raspberry heat. I walk. into this blessed fire — an assault so assuredly i am dead.

* * *

Enough with all this creative writing for myblogshit — there are ghosts, and I’m the only one. I am ghost, haunting this house, this world, these people, I stumble out, and boo them, spoil their fun, ghost their business, haunt their world, and long after they’ve gone to sleep I remain forever trapped in my silence, pacing around the world of the restless, puttering in my silence, stiled, waiting to pass on into that next world, knowing it will never come.

And I could be anything: angry. wanting. moaning. but no — sit accepting. no reason to haunt any empty vessel but myself. everyone knows that all ghosts, like clowns, are really just lonely alone underneath.