Hey now, don’t be mad okay.

Even though I lay cold and derelict on my bed. It’s been a sick night and I just cuddle up with my cat, mirroring his position – maybe, just maybe, if I tried hard enough I could have a peace of mind like him. Forming in hindsight a corrupted ying-yang sign. But it’s the thoughts that won’t leave me be. And as I lie there with the heater on, I grow cold, and the old body trembles in defeat of what the mind has cast upon it. In defiance and ambivalence. The same cold that takes over when the bad thoughts come; I try to stop it, I speak with a friend. But he is not here. Quietly, I sit up with a strange purpose – I didn’t want to wet my bed with bewildered tears. Much more, the foremost intent was not to have swollen eyes the next morning. This is my sanity, I am sane.

I had watched Girl, Interrupted a few hours ago. That would’ve been my past life if I ever had one. The fucked up people draws to me, excuse my lack of language. I wonder if our society has changed from this derailment of time. Wonder if I would be put into such place had people really knew me. Wonder of most, if I’d like it.

The night passes, I am alone, she lied. She did not come home. But neither did these bad faeries.

And yet the bad thoughts still grip me well into the morning, where it’d be mandatory for me to make my way to the kitchen for breakfast. Perhaps it’s the cold of the house itself, as I’ve often been told, or just the same old soul struggling in it’s cursed embodiment. I think of all the people I know, all the people I’d dare give myself credit enough to think they cared ; much less usually end up like a psychotic self indulged victimized asshole. I hate it. But I don’t want you to get mad. Even though that may sound stupid somehow, it makes sense to me. Because you will get mad, as you have done a thousand times in my head. Maybe that is your way of showing how much you care, but please, don’t get mad. And to do so, you don’t have to know. But I can’t stop it. I’m so cold and you’re not here. I don’t blame you. But you’re not here.

At some point and time, you had thought I’d gotten better. Or better yet, thought I had never stepped foot into this realm before. You’re wrong. But even as one you never forget how cold steel could be. It’s shocking, in a deliciously sinful way, and all of a sudden all the fear settles like someone muffled the radio from crackling it’s sermons and commands. It’s just benign for the moment, and in this moment, you are in control.

It’s the illusion of power.

I’m in the shower, stiff as a stalk, from cold , a bit of a shock, satisfaction, confusion and at most, what the hell am I doing wondering-ment. If someone were to ask me, even someone I trust, I could not explain to you what goes on through my head. I cannot, not with words or actions. But in that time and place it had been peaceful to drown my being in close to scalding hot water; the steams mask everything, and the water washes the sins away, making everything look better. Puckery and fresh.

Had I mentioned I spent the rest of that day working on my cd for my mother? See, I am sane.

In that steamy confinement, I raised a wet dreary hand and slapped it onto my face. I did not register it had been me. I only pondered, just for a brief moment, who it was with this heavy and strangely large hand. I tilt my head back, and it was pushing me down. And just a little, I was suffocating. All of a sudden I remember the previous night in bed. I had an image.

This little Asian girl, with still the silky virgin hair and the pudgy baby cheeks. She was staring at me. She had been eating honey(?) and her hands and face were smeared. It was a yellow image, like a badly washed up ashore version of old time photographs. She wore yellow too. She was eating honey. And then her eyes glazed over. But they hadn’t. They’d been however they’d been so since the beginning. It was a marbleized crystallized honey jewel, and she used them to stare at me. I am still me in the picture, I look down at her. I can almost see myself from her. I look angry or frightened. I am tall. Almost a stranger. I quietly plead her to not get mad. I did not say the words, but somehow I knew she could hear me. Does she understand perhaps. But she does not respond. I don’t think she can.

I’m wasting water is the thought that broke my delusion. With guilty conscience I decide to leave my steamy haven. The hand moves; the girl is here. Then I realized everything is me.