July

Long weekends are a cruel joke.

I make sounds I can’t recognize when I cry. I’m cowed by them, by the pain that must go into making them. I pile pillows on the other side of the bed in a shape that roughly resembles another human being, and I weep in loathing for my weakness.

I hate that I keep trapping myself in a life that hurts me so much: that I keep trusting topple-down people because something in me is better at seeing what they can be than at seeing what they are. That I am too cussed to give up on a course of training that has taught me to feel aggrieved and alienated more than anything else, that makes my life a practice in impermanence and insecurity, largely because my anger will not allow me to walk away empty-handed

I hate myself for my strength, because it keeps me walking forward into all this. It will not let me quit. It will not let me rest. It will not let me alone. I want it to go away, and it won’t. I want to break, and I can’t.

I hate myself for thinking all the time, relentlessly, always thinking. I am so cruel to myself. Why can’t I be more kind?

I hate myself already for writing this self-indulgent horseshit.

This was the month when he was supposed to come. This is the month we worked so hard for.