i love i really love you (or, "old blood," she says)

next you're going to wash away the kittens, aren't you? (tired)

i am. very. tired. and if i can hold out for four more days, that goddamn anniversary will go away for a year. i'm frightened. i want to hide under the bed. michelle let me sleep beside her for a couple nights in a row as i was too scared. sometimes, i stare at my hands and i remember how weak i am. if i had more in the way of vocal chords i might shriek from knowing this. but.

and nothing's even wrong.

well, not really...really...

/

i'm surprised at how easily i fall into this pit of pretend-growing-up. the next step came and i fell to it; i can't believe pittsburgh is a home but it is. and why do i want a job in the worst way? hrm. and "just say no! to therapy," and all the rest. i'm rearranging furniture and trying to cheer myself alone by reminding myself i've brought jean thompson and jeffrey eugenides and ferlinghetti and girl scout cookies (! the ones that come in the green box) back with me, and the bus driver's name is sally and that i worry for those i love, and those who love me; nothing's wrong with "me," per se. ha. what an odd little trap that becomes.

just checking mail now. oh, i've missed my boy. i hope he doesn't turn away. in the midst of all of this nothingis, i've had a silly urge to bake him a pie. shut up; i'm not donna reed. i can have an xx set and still like to give things like that; that doesn't make me weak. (smile) no just, other things do.

nothing's gotten done, nothing's finished. and so i look at my fingers and the hinges of this clothesline figure drawn-out shabby, and i nudge myself onward, remember the weakness i have. in me.

yeso.

/

p.s. i'm fine, dear. (smile) truly. just tired, and worried. but quite intact.