day three

i woke up with frank ocean’s “i miss you” stuck in my head and now sufjan stevens “to be alone with you” is jammed in my ears.

i’m only starting so early because i don’t know what else to do.

three thousand dollars. plaguing me, on top of everything else. i feel like i never had any control. i just need to have a say in something. i need to feel someone listen and understand deeply. i feel like my voice is so strained it’s running out of hope on days like this.

i woke up, i stayed off my phone, i read my book, i worked out, i showered, i tried to eat.. tried… i spoke to a new friend who i really think will be an angel and a blessing to me… but still the fucking three thousand dollars.. i could’ve avoid…. the two thousand i could’ve avoid… the five thousand… the thirty five hundred.

money doesn’t matter to a lot of people. but i’m sober and cynical today so it matters a lot. i don’t even want to do the calculations of how much my mistakes have cost me. and financial isn’t even the half of it. how deep are your scars. i have plenty. this one i got black out drunk fighting… and this one too… and this one too… and this one i remember crying myself to sleep and cutting my arm open to feel something more than these emotions thousands of them climbing to the top to present a feeling i would rather bleed through.

getting sober means i feel.
i sit in this feeling right now.
i don’t call him.
i don’t open the bottle of wine in the fridge.
i don’t emotionally eat.
i don’t slap makeup on my face and go hang out with boy and hook up.
i don’t find a friend to talk to.
i just sit.
and i just feel.

and it is so fucking painful. because it is years of suppression and repression.
all those poems i wrote i feel like they just flowed out of my subconscious. at times i cant even reread them… because i would be forced to hear my own hurting back to me. i wrote and i never reread. i just deposited it outside my mind as if that was productive.
now my chest is full of anxiety and fear.
it’s thirsty for tequila and empty sex.
but i won’t.
for a second, i thought… a kiss from him would be worth the three thousand dollars that sent me down this emotional vortex…
but that’s not true.
i’ll be okay.
i won’t put another band aid on a decaying wound.
i won’t even try to soothe it.
i want to rot.
i want to be reborn.
i want to be alone.

i want to be my own.

i want to be my own lover.