Friday, August 17, 2018

coffee with a shot of tears, roasted. . .

Someone tried to break into my apartment today.

Yesterday I got notified that someone went on a shopping spree with my bank info at the mall in Chicago.

The day before, I found out that my brain is full of veins that are "wonky," with no further explanation or plan or anything except instructions to take a medication I'm allergic to.

Exhausted and dreaming all of these dead dreams and sitting on my floor in the apartment with tears streaming down my face and the dogs sitting next to me and me not even realizing why or what for I'm crying. Watching tears fall into my coffee cup and ripple outwards to the edges. Salty salted caramel. Literally drinking tears. Roasted.

I hate feeling sorry for myself. I hate feeling like this. I hate that it has. . .hit. Me. I'm a fly on the wall. Swat. Hello, emptiness. Hello, emotional pain. Hello, distress. Hello, those feelings that demand to be felt but are so far away that it's like looking through an empty paper tube at something so small and so distant that I need a microscope to really analyze them. Yet as I analyze and dissect, I have no idea what I'm looking at.

Coffee with tears in it. Salted. Roasted.