Don't blush when I rip you open...

Sometimes I feel like Satan himself Appears and reappears Through different doors In my life Dressed in different disguises Each one poorly imitating love Or the promise of it...

Isolating myself in preparation for my son's birth. Up on the 16th floor with a stack of Bukowski books and (in my opinion) the best view in Melbourne, overlooking the city. So here I am, just Bukowski and I. This imaginary friendship is only occasionally interrupted by the manic Russian gymnast who has taken up residence in my womb. The kicks, squirms and little feet protruding from my stomach always make me stop and smile. I'm going to give all my love to this little boy. I have no time anymore for crack-pipe philosophy or drug-addled dramatics, gracefully acted by the downward few. All my mental energy is going toward preparing for an unmedicated childbirth. I don't want my son's first experience of this world to be an opiate-induced haze. The countdown begins!

I've spent the last 6 months piecing back together reality or at least my version of it. This morning it was totally shattered again. I'll be a mess when it hits. When it hits. If I believed in god, id ask him/her/it to give me strength. But I don't. So fuck. This will define me after it temporarily throws me into the void. A place I'm all too familiar with.