Thirty and Broke
When it gets really bad. Like blackout bad.
Like Lock-up-pills bad. I look at beach houses
For sale online (everyone needs some good self-
Torture). I want to be bought and to buy one.
I imagine myself. In front lead glassed sun room.
The floors full of sand. And a small place. My own
Place. I never belonged anywhere. To anyone.
Married (for goddamn christ sake), but I still don’t feel him.
My heart has closed until I find my own way.
And guilt. And fear. And devastated. Because I’m
Not his little girl, and never was.
So I dream of that beach. A heavy ocean.
Take me away or set me tall. Just do something
To me. I whisper to him, and to life, and to salt-water.
It all means so much. I see it means, but I…
I keep house, keep home. This little shell I resent.
It keeps me here, just like my skin and sick brain.
Just like my swollen joints. I swell up, shell up, until I
Break up. And this year I saw it. My own life.
It terrified me. Terrifies me. I cry for it. I would kill for it.
I don’t move. I don’t do.
I just look at the beach house.
Such beautiful writing :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Hannah!
DeleteThis is written so beautifully. <3
ReplyDeleteAww thanks Caitlin! I hate writing but love it too, it is such an emotional process for me, it's exhausting. But I know it is what I need to do. No matter what.
DeleteLove, C