This week is going to produce a casualty. I have been barely able to eat, unable at all to sleep. I have nothing for this. It’s killing me. I don’t know how to deal with Not Having Something.  Only once before have I had this and then my doctor wanted me hospitalized. There was fever at the end, hallucinatory madness. I forgot that I could feel so intensely. I forgot what hate felt like. I don’t care what you think. You are nothing compared to this, you are dust in the face of this bitter tasting violence. It sits inside of me, driving me to pain and wonder and derision.

I’ve been swearing lately. Not a good sign.

I should be happy my Lover’s arrived, but I don’t know how I feel. I love him, yes, but I don’t know if I want him. Something has been discarded.  There’s something hard in this, in my dispassion. I can spit venom. It might be the wall inside of me, growing into steel with claws. Emotion to deaden, to destroy. I’ve been alone for months, twisting with it like on a spike. Driving myself into want, need, but there’s nothing here enough. There’s no affection.  I can’t breathe.

I’ve been yelling at people. Since when do I yell at people?

Something raw, something primal. Despise this, tear it, rip it into gobbets of flesh to drink from, to bite, to chew and spit out. Bloody spittle running down the face of whatever enemies decide now is a good time to face me. Wish I had some. My incremental grievance, my rankling self resentment. Spiteful tongued viciousness. It’s in my chest, it’s heavy. Give me time alone, give me scorn. I’ll lick it off a plate like cream. There is no “Fine” this week, there is no “I am well”.

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