dusk

Sure, it's gross, but that's not why.

It's hard to look at because clearly no one could be bothered.

Like, really? To the edge of the road, that's as far as we're willing to take it?

This creature has died horrifically and the most we could do is leave it unattended and wait for a city worker to pick it up to do god knows what with it.

And the worst part is,

I always keep on driving.

There's a part of me that wants to stop, to mourn the life that was, but I always have somewhere to be.

I need to go from one inconsequential building to another to do things that don't matter.

I don't have time to pity the dead.

This brick in the wall needs to hold up another brick in the wall and if I get distracted thinking about dead deer the whole thing collapses.

Or at the very least I'll end up destitute.

And then I'll become roadkill too.

Where I'll wait.

And wait.

It seems so much harder to extend care to me than it is to them

And sure, part of that is the inherent innocence one sees in animals, but should it really be that hard to give myself grace? To believe I deserve it?

It's easy to think you're bad when it's what you've been told since you were old enough to understand it

It's one of those stories that is told through the absences

The absence of comfort

Of validation

Of care

When a story is told enough times it gets etched into the walls of your mind

Treated as fact

An unshakable reality

As unresponsive and unfeeling as the parents who were supposed to love you

Unmoved by your tears and the dog-like innocence you once possessed

But today I will be a dog and tell myself that it's alright, permit the naivety required to believe it

Art based on the song Curdled Milkteeth by @narcissistcookbook from the Jam Mechanics podcast. Been obsessed with it lately and if it's not played at the Minneapolis show I will... do nothing, I guess, but I hope this song gets played :)

And the glass is scattered on the floor

Am I even me anymore?

What was I before?

This mirror is shattered

And so too is my hand

The tears and blood will dry

But the scars and fractures withstand

I am everything you wanted

But nothing that I was

In this mirror I try to see myself

Cause I liked you better drunk

Than I ever liked you sober

At least when you were drunk

You didn't pretend to be charming

Or kind

Or selfless

Or a mom

All you did was lay on the couch

And leave the raising of your child to the real adults

When you were sober you wanted to be my mother

But I hadn't had one for twelve years

And now the one I had was such a bitch

You made me cry all the time

You didn't even flinch

When I left you sent me baby photos

Asked what happened to your little baby

I said you killed them

The professor is talking but I'm having a hard time listening

She's running quickly through slides but they still move too slow

I feel a strangely acute sense of exhaustion

One uncharacteristic of my 8 hours of sleep and 11 am class time, yet I'm unsurprised at first

After all, I'd worked a busy day yesterday, perhaps I'd just been pushing myself too hard

And this class is rather boring

I yawn again, god, is that the tenth time now?

My eyes are watery and my nose is running

Presumably from the nonstop yawning

The teacher is done talking now, it's time to work on an assignment individually

But I can't focus

I don't think I've ever been this tired

I haven't slept in class since third grade, but it sounds like a great idea now

I yawn again when I realize something

My hearing is getting strangely... fuzzy

It feels like all the sounds around me are coming in through cheap headphones that are slowly but steadily getting ripped out of my ears

Suddenly my stomach is in knots and it feels like at any moment it may fall out of me

Straight through the floor

Oh, I'm fainting

I think to myself as my vision blurs

I can feel the sweat gathering on my skin

I consider, for a moment, what to do

I could simply lay my head against the desk

That would probably be okay, but if I laid down perhaps I could prevent fainting altogether

And the feeling of my body failing is becoming increasingly unpleasant

Though laying on the ground unprompted is probably frowned upon

I consider talking to the teacher

This is a first aid class, she'd know how to help

But I don't remember her name

I could say "professor", but then she'd know I forgot it

I ponder what to do

I decide to use my evermore shaky hands to get to the syllabus page on my open computer

"Mindy" is the only word I pick out of the increasingly blurry lines

I take a moment to try to gather my words but none come when I look up at her

Maybe I should just faint on the desk

My vision blurs deeper and speckles as my stomach knots further

Eventually I simply say

"Mindy?"

She looks up

"I don't feel well. I'm going to lay on the ground now."

I get on the floor with all the gracefulness expected of the situation and she rushes over

A student I don't know buys me a water bottle and another one looks over at me, but says nothing

I'd normally be concerned about staring but I can't quite make myself care now

Though I'd certainly care later

In my head it is raining

And the coffin is small

It is her coffin

He stares down at it

Surrounded by everyone he knows

They offer condolences, but he doesn't listen

All he can hear is the cries he didn't hear that night

"It was unnatural," he said,

"A father at his daughter's funeral."

Now he is looking at his new child, only seven

Though many times older than the last ever was

The child listens, but doesn't speak

Knowing that they have nothing to add

The child listens again as their Grandma explains what happened

In that same foggy way the story is always told

They don't say so, but they know there's always more to it than what is said

"They wanted a new baby so badly," their Grandma says,

"They wanted you."

The child listens, but doesn't speak

Knowing they have nothing to add

A picture made up of a thousand words

A person made up of a hundred stories

Yet for every portrait I paint

Of that child and their parents

I don't understand how they could have wanted them

So soon after she was gone

No longer that child, I can only paint one picture

One of broken parents

Broken by their own mistakes

And a child

Whenever I have free time

I don't know why I do it

Because all I find are bugs

That have made their homes beneath the rocks' shadows

They scurry around and up my arms and bite me

And it hurts

It's a tough dilemma, really

I don't care for bugs in my garden

Knowing they're there, waiting, writhing beneath the surface

And I always know

But each time I try to uncover them, to expose them,

It seems I only get hurt

Maybe I will turn over one more rock today