"If you can think of times in your life that you’ve treated people with extraordinary decency and love, and pure uninterested concern, just because they were valuable as human beings. The ability to do that with ourselves.  To treat ourselves the way we would treat a really good, precious friend. Or a tiny child of ours that we absolutely loved more than life itself.  And I think it’s probably possible to achieve that.  I think part of the job we’re here for is to learn how to do it.  I know that sounds a little pious."
-- David Foster Wallace

dear god,


why did you make me this way?


please get back to me asap.


with love,
nicole.

i stopped waiting for you hours ago, but i still can't seem to sleep. it was the first time you said her name, and it burned into my retinas like a branding. i can still see it when i close my eyes.

i cried for you for the first time last night;
sober, that is.
for you? because of you? because i'm without you?
all of the above.
it's starting to spread throughout my body from the heart,
it's almost like a pain but a good pain
and now it's in my hips,
shoulder blades,
collar bone.
a constant ache.
i have convinced myself that i know the sound of you breathing,
and i play it in my ear, on my pillow.
and i don't want to cry.
i don't want to cry for something that is all in my head.

sometimes i

create for

myself a

reason to.

on me

in me

coming out

of me.

it must end.

it must end before i run out of room

and i become completely unlovable.

just one big spot of blood

dried on the skin of your hands

that you wash off with soap

and watch go down the drain.

i have watched myself go down the drain

countless times.

it kind of just sunk in that i will not be seeing you and i am torn, by the razor's edge of reality. i am the world's rage erupting up like flames lighting burning everything i touch. you are the tall cool glass of water autumns cold breeze every element that has the power to put me out. cool me down. make me real again. what am i when i'm real? it is so late and i can hear an animal outside my window screaming to the moon.

i am waiting for my headache to go away
it's been around
for three days now

i am waiting for beer to get here
my throats been dry since last saturday night

i am waiting for that feeling that i get
in my tummy
when my lips touch someone else's for the first time

i am waiting for money
to appear in my pocket
so i can get away and
spend it on cigarettes and
more beer

i am waiting to be seen in a light that is not tainted
i am waiting to be invisible
and i am waiting to grow up
and i am waiting for the day where i can look at my ribcage
and not want to cut it up
and i am waiting for the day i can stop feeling so bad
so bad
i am waiting and waiting
to waste away

i am home alone in this strange house and i am waiting for someone to come home. and as i pace i pretend it's you, coming home, to me. and that this is our house. i sit down on the couch, put my feet up. stare at the door. i stand, pace, walk to the kitchen. sit down, stand up. look out the window. it is so hot. and i pace the bare halls in my underwear. i sit once more and try to be so still thinking it will cool me down but i feel a layer of sweat form in and around my body. slowly a drip falls, trickles down my arm, i close my eyes and it's your finger, tracing me down to my elbow. and now you're on my neck, and my thigh. i open my eyes and see that it's just sweat, and that this is not our house. and you will not be walking through the front door.
i am so hot.
i walk to the fridge, there is no beer. i walk to the bedroom, you are not there. you are nowhere. so i sit and daydream of the day where you will walk in the front door, cold six pack in hand, smile, strip down to your underwear, sit, and sweat with me.