Shit Storms and Hard Black Cherry Lemonade


It’s noon and I’m drinking. I haven’t just started, in fact I’m pretty deep in it now. The morning dishes lay where they fell and someone’s toenail clippings remain in a neat little pile on my coffee table. I have black mascara streaks down my cheeks and a booze stain down the front of my shirt. I smell like B.O.
I’m sitting outside among a billion corpses. The leaves mark a hundred different kinds of death for me as they crunch beneath my feet and I realize that I have not once lost my composure despite all this ruination. If I do, who will make it OK? Who will hold everything together if I fall apart? How can I continue to be calm, loving and caring with this shit storm brewing in my heart? Will I die with these leaves and be stepped on by the next mournful warrior to pass through here, my bones crunching beneath heavy boots?
I feel like everybody has gone away. And they have. Are they going to come back? Am I gone too and I just don’t know it? I don’t deserve to give in to this, not compared to the others. Not compared to everyone around me. I feel like an inukshuk; standing alone. My job is to guide weary, lost travellers who are desperately lost. I am the symbol of hope and home. But where is my inukshuk? What a joke it is to have found it inside myself and to understand that not only must I stand true for others, but that I’m really MY only hope as well.
Not today. Today I’m alone and going crazy. I’m giving into the shit storm and everyone can just deal with it. So if I call you crying or yelling or singing at the top of my lungs don’t remind me of it tomorrow once I’m better and strong again. Today, I am sad, mad and sick. I just am.


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