In the last week, I went back to work but my mouth blew up, my sugar rose.
And so again, I went home and stewed. Drank icy water and ate Cheerios, one by one.
I slept for hours that turned into days.
Watched nightfall. Slept. Watched morning come. Slept some more.
Took Xanax. Took Nyquil. Took too much of everything,
I took the train back to the city last night, back to work and a life I forget I should be living.
I came home and took nothing.
I was done with the haziness, but then I tossed and turned and I couldn't breathe through my nose, so—
I slept until I woke up again at 4, my favorite of these bleary-eyed hours. These hours where I wake up and think:
Shit, that hurts.
Fuck. I have no money and I have to pay rent and I want to take that class and FREAK OUT!.
That’s a good one, I should write that down.
But last night, I gave up my desperate bid for sleep, as I so often do.
My stomach growled and I made popcorn, kernels falling to the kitchen floor.
I am always thinking:
I will clean them up later.
I came back to bed and looked at the calendar, each day of July, a month slowly coming to a close. I touched each day with my finger and scrolled the tip of my finger across my iPhone, lighting up day after day.
Days I don’t even remember happening.
I haven't been able to figure out what my memories of July will be.
It kind of sucked, didn't it?
Maybe we’ll say this, next year or in ten years or maybe we'll never say it at all, just forget.
It kind of sucked, you were in the hospital and then you were better, and then almost again...
Maybe I should just forget.
This was good,
This was bad,
That did not.
I'm always looking forward just to look backwards. Dreaming of October while I'm filling up July with stories, stories I'll tell come Fall.
The summer of two thousand and ten, let's see, I was twenty four years old and things happened, I went to a concert, Meghan had a birthday party, I tried to swim every weekend...
What will I think in December? What will I say now? What happens next?