11,000 days of my life looking up from the bottom of a garbage can
I'm looking in the bottom of my trash can. It's filled with kitchen scraps, cat litter, and my marriage.
11,000 wasted breakfasts.
11,000 days waking up together.
4 sexual encounters (Just kidding...I meant 4 loving sexual encounters, or less.).
0 love ever. I don't recall a gesture of softness or protection or affirmation. Just her angry glare of disappointment, hour by hour.
What did she think she was supposed to get from her life, and why wasn't she smart enough to recognize that she was destroying everyone she met with her bitter hatred of the world that wouldn't make her its North Star. Or even some unnoticed constellation.
A world that didn't notice her either.
But I did. Others did. She still raped us all because none of us are ever enough.
If you're aging gracefully, Mina, it's because you've stopped trying to notice yourself. You can't see what's happening to you in the mirror after a couple of Crossfit classes. Any life coach could explain that in a minute. Listen, please?
Do something to reverse the pain and hatred you own.
Comments
Post a Comment