Something is wrong.


For days I have felt weak. My sleep has been heavy and dull; my waking hours filled with vague melancholy and sharp spikes of id. I have not upset my routine: at 6am I still know your decaf, your milk on the side. My mouth is a wide grin. My eyes are glass.

I went to acupuncture today. My heart has been in my throat this week, breaking only to travel to the pit of my stomach. Needles have helped before.

I can never seem to shake the sorrow that I feel when I am expecting bad news. It’s not that I am anxious: it’s that in my mind I have prepared to grieve and I can already feel it with my entirety. I am always certain people will leave.

But there I was, trying for any relief that could be provided to me. I should have known better. It’s a rare day that I can go for treatment and be left without thoughts of you. After all, you even share the name of my doctor.  I told him I wasn’t feeling well this week. I said no more. I never do.

I was apathetic towards the new placements of the needles. My mind raced. My head hurt.

I noticed the redness around a needle in my arm. I remembered that late one night you showed me the same on your own arm. My hand felt heavy. My heart hurt.

Most days I dozed easily. Today I shivered. My lungs felt as though I were screaming. I turned my head and found my hair plastered to my damp cheek. If I had drifted off, I had also wept. I was out of ideas and had exhausted my resources.

I called my mom. Her phone was disconnected.

I could still find solace in a bottle of wine. I drove the long way home. I turned the music off. I didn’t want to sing. I thought of Israel. I felt nothing.

Who the hell is this?


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