of loveletters on papercups

At the bus stop

while I waited for the B131 to take me to my friend’s baby shower this man next to me made sure his eyes never left my arms, my back, my legs the teenage boy cycling past decided to sing of wedding nights just as he inched closer the one sitting with the newspaper - his salt and pepper hair reminding me of my grandfather - knew how to strategically brush his hand against my body and disguise his intention this is how everyday is.

~ Bee / things you should get used to

On days like this I don’t care how bright it shines outside, how many people text me to ask how I’m doing, if the salary account is credited with enough to get me through the month, how the writing is flowing. On days like this I only want to crawl into the garden pit, smell the earth, be still, pretend to be dead, wonder who would miss me and who wouldn’t and how long it would take them all to not think of me one day and then not at all. On days like this the weatherman’s assurances don’t prepare me for what’s to come. I could drown or I could be buried depending on how my heart is heaving under this heavy loneliness, when you’re there and not there, and everything that seemed good once seems to be shriveling under an anxiety that lurks constantly telling you how you can’t be happy, how you were right about your fears, how he will leave like everyone else. On days like this the isolation beats loudest.

~ Bee

At the bus stop while I waited for the B131 to take me to my friend’s baby shower this man next to me made sure his eyes never left my arms, my back, my legs

the teenage boy cycling past decided to sing of wedding nights just as he inched closer

the one sitting with the newspaper - his salt and pepper hair reminding me of my grandfather - knew how to strategically brush his hand against my body and disguise his intention

this is how everyday is.

~ Bee / things you should get used to

(The metro.

The station.

The bus.

The footpath.

On days like this I don’t care how bright it shines outside, how many people text me to ask how I’m doing, if the salary account is credited with enough to get me through the month, how the writing is flowing.

On days like this I only want to crawl into the garden pit, smell the earth, be still, pretend to be dead, wonder who would miss me and who wouldn’t and how long it would take them all to not think of me one day and then not at all.

On days like this the weatherman’s assurances don’t prepare me for what’s to come. I could drown or I could be buried depending on how my heart is heaving under this heavy loneliness, when you’re there and not there, and everything that seemed good once seems to be shriveling under an anxiety that lurks constantly telling you how you can’t be happy, how you were right about your fears, how he will leave like everyone else.

On days like this the isolation beats loudest.

~ Bee