indifference to waiting because hours taste like minutes & days kiss your neck just like years. maybe it doesn't matter anymore.
sitting on the pavement. hands folded. looking down. always looking down. brown eyes cast at cement. feeling passing
glances, like knives through flesh. you can be numb as fuck but a deep wound always throbs. & you can sit there on that cement.
& you can wait for that fucking train until the moon retreats & the sun comes up against a pink & blue sky; but baby, that train, it's not coming.
i will be starting therapy again next week. it's been a year. but the flashes of blade to wrist & rope to throat & gun to head are becoming too much.
so i will be starting therapy again next week. although there is a part of me that just wants to give up. fuck it. all of it. but i'm holding on. [by a thread.]
written on 2004-02-09 at 10:46 p.m.
she / lost