flowers, boxing gloves, ironic juxtaposition

Face your demons and beat them back, come back breathing, corporeal, not strictly whole. Am i trying hard enough yet am i allowed to want to die? No. Regret is stronger than gratitude though so I could look forward to the flowers on my grave then. But at least if she dies you’ll get the insurance payout. I will never live it down, getting angry at you for that one. I will never open my mouth again put pen to paper again because every time everything that comes out of it is poison sick a thumbprint of the evil at the back of my throat under my spine lining my skull. How long will it take before it besmirches everything I interact with? Forgive me for not handling this with the grace you think I should have. They didn’t cover this in any of my undergrad classes. Whatever came out of the hospital wasn’t me. No one likes the things it has to say and it is composed only of impulsive grief and rage, only useful in its studious silence of which there is never enough. Would it make a sound like an egg shell if I cracked its skull open on the sidewalk spilled ink yolk across the pavement and wrote out the evil and robbed it of speech instead?

rlb 4.13.17

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