Sometimes I think myself sick. It can happen anytime, but gets particularly loud the quieter it is. The bathroom can be a quiet place; at my worst, my husband jokes with me that I'm not allowed to go there anymore, because I inevitably return to him feeling that much worse. He has come to recognize that the quieter I am outwardly, the faster my small, personal thrill ride glides across its oiled tracks. Being that no matter how hard he tries, I've never allowed him an admittance ticket, he's focused on understanding the composition of the lubrication, because that's ultimately what allows it to begin in the first place. He's a very rational person. I am, however, protective of the family recipe, so I leave out several ingredients. I tell him, merely, that it's a petroleum product, which is something he already knows. The rest of the time, I elect to play stupid. Sometimes I wonder how much he believes it. He's thankful for any tiny piece I can give him, though he'd rather take it all.
Sometimes I stretch metaphors for more than they're worth. Shhh.
(My life as a catacomb. Mental illness as a catacomb. Not only a place of death, decay, and burial, but also used as a safe haven and refuge during times of war. My life was a war. The aftermath is so very very quiet, so mundane, and so safe that it's boring. The caverns are haunted. Though the bones are all the same, each tell a different story. That which I have created for protection is now what others deem my sickness, and what I myself run from even while I keep making the maze more complicated to ensure my continued imprisonment.)
I wish I could write a fucking story. I wish I could say something, or unravel something, or do something that held some sort of meaning. I do dishes. I cook. I keep everything tied up like a sadistic parent. Now I'm not even humane enough to get inebriated and lesson the torture. I stumble over words and feel like I don't have enough, like I'm trying to write about an entire lifetime using a magnetic poetry set. I don't know how to write worth a damn. Out of all the books being written in the world, I probably won't ever contribute one. I'm lazy, and question whether I'm capable in the first place. It takes me hours just to write a paragraph, and it's tiring as all fuck.
I want to explode like a barren uterus.
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