#04072021

I wish someone would have told me that the last dabs of the weed cart were gonna hit harder than the first ones. I also wish someone would have told me that these bath time crayons from Amazon were going to bleed as much as they did, but for five dollars I’m not sure what I was expecting. 

All I’ve ever wanted to do is paint pictures with my words; the ones I purposefully plucked, gingerly with the very tips of my fingers, out of the online dictionary and onto my pages. I want my words to mean something. 

There are 170,000 words in the English language. There are one-hundred-seventy-thousand words in the English language. There are 170,000 words in the English language, and instead of taking the time to clack away at my keyboard writing them out, I am scribbling as many of those 170,000 words as possible onto my bathroom wall in a washable crayon meant for children. 

(Perhaps that’s why they fit so perfectly into my hands.) 

I’m so high, I should probably take a cold shower. I’m so high, I need to get my words out while I can still remember them. I’m so high, I’m pretty sure if I jumped off of the roof of this building it would take hours for me to reach the ground.

I pray to someone that I’ll have the ability to make sense of these thoughts come morning; that the 45-minute shower I just took writing rainbow gibberish on the walls will at least count for something. That I will at least find my heart that I just poured into the bathtub still beating as I step into my morning shower. 

Each tile is a letter I will never have the courage to send. Each inch of color was written by a different version of myself, for every moment that passes I become slowly yet increasingly sober. Each and every word is a mirror-- a reflection of my past mistakes and things I can never take back. Every streak of pigment is an apology to someone who needs to hear it but never will because I know I will never have the guts to allow these words to leave the bathroom.