It Gets Later And Later
and i tell myself, "i will go to bed in 15
a half an hour, an hour," yet here i still am, minus
some time for..well, life.
and i know in the morning i will regret this, when
my eyes look like road maps and my skin is blotchy from
too many cigarettes and the odd tear or two.
but the compulsion is on me again. i feel the need to
translate feelings into words and release them, but
nothing comes out right.
sometimes i feel as if i were born this age, in this
confusion and despair. there seems, at times like these,
to be nothing left of the child i was.
man, it's hard staying alive day after day sometimes. it
gets so that i'm just sitting on the bed concentrating on
breathing, thinking of nothing.
"catatonic again, denise?" glenn will ask me in a superior
voice. i snap at him, "i TOLD you how i am. why do you
keep expecting me to be different?"
i have a future to look forward to now. something to get
up in the morning for and it frightens me. i've grown used
to being taken care of.
yet inside of me beats the dream of my own home, clean, quiet,
safe. closets to hide in when things get to be too much for
me, food i prepare myself with groceries i buy.
i cannot have that freedom without giving up this one. this
one where i am free to sit on the bed concentrating on not
i feel suddenly a hundred years old and much too fragile to
face the coming sunrise. illusion. i will take a big, deep
breath, close my eyes for a minute, and do what i have to do...
as i've always done.
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