v u l v a l i c i o u s
I admit to being nosy. To looking in medicine cabinets and bedside tables when no one is in the house. I take things too far. I am in the living room in a house that is not mine with my shirt off like it's the most normal thing in the world. And it is, here anyway, inside my weird brain where the conversations I have with myself seem to have gotten me farther than the conversations I've had with other people lately.
With them, there is spinning of wheels, dirty muck flying up in my face and eyes, and I swear I'm blinded when it's all over. With me it's processing, everything I already know shoved around, dry dust pushing up and into my nose, but I can see. Clarity. And the smell of dirt never bothered me so much as its physical presence.
But I'm reading someone else's email, going at least one step over a line, because it seems to me that if I don't know what's there it will kill me; I'm reading the words and feeling knife stabs over someone who loves me saying that they don't choose me. That in some imaginary war, I was on the wrong side. But that telling me that wasn't important.
And I'm spinning my wheels by myself. There's nobody left to talk to and no place to shout but the empty silence of my car on a quiet road, very dark, but maybe there's music in the background that I've pushed into nothing so that I could hear the rip of the scream through the air and feel my fists poundpoundpound on the ceiling, steering wheel, seats. The wheels on the car are turning, getting me somewhere, and I am screaming, wanting to close my eyes but knowing how ridiculous that would be.
It's terrible to feel like the only person you were trusting can't be trusted. That all the times she has blown you off for sleep and lovers has been the reality of your friendship, with the long talks and good bits as nothing but pretty fantasies.
All this talking is getting me nowhere.