I can’t think. I can’t write. He’ll be here next week, and I’m a mess. I keep feeling the need to escape, to pry out from under his thumb, to flee from him & find the other, the one I love, the one I need, the one giving me my strength.

After getting off the phone, my knees gave out and I fell on the carpet in the hall, bruising my shoulder and scraping my elbow. I began to sob and kick the walls and door and yank my fingers through my hair, saying loudly, “I hate you! You don’t understand!”

I’m a bit disappointed. All you do is read and write. I see your age coming out in you. NOBODY has that many health issues. You’re being lazy. There’s no excuse; you’re perfectly capable.

(My lies are catching up with me.)

What’s in my heart and what’s in my mouth are incongruent.

I’m drawing farther into my own chaotic wake.

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