Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)

14. She of my diary

My notes are nothing but black ink and despair, I've lost the ability to cry...I write...all that is to my memory is the sound of her laughter and the handful of excitement in her pockets.
I'm terrible; terrible I cannot imagine how she wakes up smiling to my face in the mornings my mother always told me I had a face for funerals and murky days; even my complexion is tired my eyes dilating by the fload of a swallowing fatigue. I was tired but she gave me a buzzing feelings that made my lashes flutter to a light liveliness a vibration that shook me and acted in a matter that didn't resemble what I knew of myself. As if all I knew of life before her was nothingness and dull ignorance I could touch things, smell a scary change in the air whenever her skin touches mine. The smell of dried blood I had secretly kept beneath my nails is a known fact of evanescence as her lips press onto my fingertips.

I'm being eaten by the thoughts the memory of her is distinct today sharper in my loins; so is pain, it has to be greater than what my body has to offer; so I suffer willingly feverish with my gone cold coffee for the sake of taking a last balade with her in my minds eye keep her close enough to breathe. God I fucking hate myself and the ways I made her feel I hope she's doing better now that she's out of town I hope she thinks of me tonight and wish for me to die_die alone the way I told her I feared.

It's enough for today my mouth is already running dry I better go to the house curl in a ball and decay while the drought of cheeks compensate over the weeping girl left inside the silent walls of my chest.

7 September 2022