Inanimate objects are much better lovers

It turns my stomach to even remember, which is an improvement that I even care. The second hand kept landing on nine every time I glanced at it, making me wonder whether I would be stuck in this moment till he was happy with my answer, but the minute hand was quickly skipping recognizing my flight time, sympathizing with me, hoping it would end soon. And it did…

I was out of town. And I can’t stress enough how good it felt. To leave in the night with no one knowing where you are or where you’re going. Oh, cold concrete and striped blacktop you are my love. I will never leave you, no matter how much some brave, disjointed emotion or warm, relaxed hands could give. I am yours and am too selfish to share.   

I parked and went inside the Super 8 around 4 AM. An Indian woman—eyes closed and joints stiff—gave me room 106. The box smelled like stale cigarettes and too little detergent. With every light turned on I still had a hard time seeing the stains on the now off-white sheets. The mattress rustled as if it were made of paper and the pillows were only their cases. The pen on the nightstand had been decapitated of its inked point.

As I scribbled I wondered how many other people like me had been here before, writing frivolously, happy, alone. I only wish to meet one of them. Maybe next time I’ll ask at the front desk, I need a room with a vagabond type who travels only with a pad of paper and a pen, mentally exhausted but relieved finally, ambiguous but readily available if you ask the correct questions, immoral but not tonight. No preference on sex or age but must be a smoker.

I slept better there than in my own bed. The farther away from my own comforts, the easier it is to sleep.

He left me with, “I’d rather be miserable.”

We only agreed once.

I wondered why we weren't together...

I know what I want, but not well enough to pin it down. I just get so overwhelmed...

"Fuck you... And you wonder why I have a hard time feeling. It's because of girls like you..."

I spent 30 minutes in my car, salt running down my cheeks smudging the black I use to try to be presentable down my chin. And not because of the above line... That was just a consequence of the rest. I could care less what one person, even a hundred people, want to judge me for.

It feels different, somehow more lonely,  when I'm crying here. Back home, I held it in until I was safely in my room, no one to ask me what was wrong, but I knew my mother and father were right downstairs in case I decided I couldn't handle everything by myself. I always did... But now I would give anything to have my mom right downstairs, sleeping, ready to wake up in a terrified wale if I snuck into her room. I'd give anything to tell my mother everything that's going on... But I couldn't even if she didn't care to know.

I was sitting in my car... ready to run.... like always. I can't explain what's going on and I don't want people to see the frail, needy me that I hide. I actually can't tell if I'm hiding it or it isn't that much a part of me... I'd like to think the latter but I won't rule out the predecessor.

I think it's just a little harder for me now... without the cutting, without the alcohol, without the drugs... to cope with all that I have going on... especially in this nearly schizo matter in my head making me crazy. It would be so easy to fall back into any of those things... I did them well for so long.

This is all most likely just a rambling mess... No description, just ranting. I'm not even going to read through it because I'll hate it all.

I'm to critical.

I'm done crying... My face is stiff from dried tears and my body aches for something more. I'll never stop, you know.

Oh sweet words... I have found you.

In the morning the rain makes me long for something more. I wonder what I'm doing--working two waitressing jobs--that I love, nonetheless--but without writing. I haven't written in so long and I need it. It hurts me not to write and it hurts me even more that I've had plenty of things to write about here but have pretended that I haven't had the time or needed a break.

At night the rain blurs every line, every light, every thought. The smudged streaks of red foreshortened on the wet black road draws me forward, like a fly towards a glowing electrified zap, while the green lights push me on. I wouldn't mind leaving this place... Just like that. It will happen soon I'm sure, so if you're here and you care to spend time I'd do it now.

The next rainy night, driving aimlessly around town, keeping both hands on the wheel--as if that means I know where I'm headed--as the steering wheel jerks through the puddles, I'll sneak out. I'll have no qualms about telling no one. They'll text me for a drink and as infinitesimal as possible I'll say, "I'm not in Columbia anymore." And that will be that... A new city, new people to learn and love, a new adventure.

At night the rain blurs everything. It's treacherous and eerie and dark... But aren't those the words I live for?