Talking about the hole in my bed

I have to warn you, I am sad and will probably talk about it. This disclaimer is so you like me and so I can be less naked. That disclaimer was so you’d know I’m smart. Isn’t he clever you’ll say while I make the same point twice. The horse is dead and I straddle the body and grip with my knees. I wrap my hands in mane hair and throw out my back pulling the horse’s corpse through the grass. I’m like a kid playing cowboy except I hate myself and PETA is on their way.

I was considering making a few purchases soon. One is a waffle maker so I can forget how far I am from my family. The indulgent waffles are a way to pretend. It is Sunday and I am still young and my parents do not make my chest cave in with every call. It is good to pretend. It keeps the mind agile and healthy while numbing the fibrous sea urchin growing on my brain stem. The second purchase is a literary journal. One I was rejected from. I gotta see what I’m up against, I’m still new to this game friend. But the literary journal is 30 dollars and so is the waffle maker. 30 bucks for slippery words that squik out my cupped palms and pool on the floor, making my bum wet. 30 smackers to lie with syrup and butter still caught in my throat, and waffle makers seem annoying to clean. Decisions, decisions.

Lately I’ve been sleeping pretty bad. There’s a hole in my bed that gets bigger every night. This is not a metaphor but we can pretend that it is. Yes I have bad sleep hygiene, Yes it seems chronic, No I will not try laying down quietly. I don’t know what else to say about it. It’s romantic and overplayed and not very interesting. To be accommodating I have been sleeping on my side in the hole in my bed, as to not snore like a 400 pound man-bear, according to incredulous roommates. The thing is, 400 pound bears get to sleep for months in a hole in the ground and they grow a plug in their anus to keep from pooping. I think it is probably dangerous for humans to sleep in a hole for months while wearing a buttplug. But I am not a scientist. Not at the moment.

I wrote a poem yesterday. I hear potential. It’s so much work though right? All of this is so much work. Polish and sand and shape and sand like the woodworkers I watch to fall asleep. Music is going well, though some guy wants me to write 2 whole songs, and doesn’t he know I’m tired? Don’t they all get tired? Every time I think about the restaurant and serving I feel so sad. Every time I see a teenager at a fast food place closing shift I feel so exhausted. The world depends on people working shitty jobs. I depend on these people. I am one of these people. I’ve lost my way in this writing I think. The point is, I think the depression’s back. The dark in my spine crawls out my skin like wet shadows with spindly crab legs and a plump, slightly deflated abdomen that’s hot to the touch. It collects with the dark in the corners of my room and the dark that I’ve carried throughout the day, that falls like pollen in my hair and death threats in the mirror.

We’re ok though. Sincerely. I feel better. Sometimes it is good to talk about it.