September 24, 2003
Mediate on This
How often have I found myself crouched on a bathroom floor, the tile having become the ceiling of my thought, all there is, glowing and ceramic and vomit green? I am trying to avoid looking. I am counting to sixty once, twice, two impatient for three times. The plastic winking, menacing, throbbing as my heart is.
One line. It's only ever one line.
I crumple the carnation pink cardboard box, the sounds of plastic and paper rubbing as I shove the whole of the mess into the tiny disposal bin in the corner of the stall. It's for other things, and I am wishing my trash were different today.
Nine dollars effort and the one line have yet to bring me evidence, so still I worry. I can't pretend as though my diet hasn't changed, and this hasn't been a perfectly hellish week. I'm just no good for sex, unless I'm in the middle of it.
Whenever I get angry with him, I think about it. I think... this man's baby? It would ruin the both of us, and everything we have. Our love is too young to withstand such a flood; he can breaks like waves upon me but I must remain standing.
I've become too abstract for my own good. Whatever happened to my sense of humour?
astera at 9:06 p.m.