It’s a fit, a full-blown meltdown.
It’s digging my fingers into my hair,
sitting on the edge of my bed, rocking and rocking
—and I know I look mad, I know I’m insane—
It’s squeezing my eyes shut with tears salting the lashes.
It’s a long screech, a high-pitched wail,
sounds a lot like I’m dying.
Waking up stresses me out.
It has not been a good morning. The straw has broken the camel’s back and the fine balancing act is done, the house of cards is toppling down in stress after stress after stress. I’m just tired. I’m just shit.
No, it’s really not been a good morning.
The yard has exploded into a blast of dandelion yellow
and great big tufts of fuzz that I love to kick
love to watch explode, love to watch the pieces float away.
Great thick patches of clover, and purple buds—
shouting that Spring is here,
which means bees. Lots of bees.
And I want to build a garden,
soaked up in the colors of the season.
Bright and vivid, soft and sweet
oranges, yellows, pinks, reds and purple
and so much fucking green.
You’re born on the South Side. It takes a long time before you learn where that’s at, a particular neighborhood in a particular town in a particular state. It’s always just been South Side.
“I’m from South Side, and you’re a fuckin’ South Sider too, and we fuckin’ stick to our goddamn fuckin’ own, y’hear me?”
Like you’re sitting at the drop off edge of the world and you can go no further down.
It doesn’t take a long time to find that there’s a lot further down to go.