What am I supposed to do?
Tell me - am I supposed to just sit here aimlessly staring at the wall? It’s chipped paint beige and unremarkable. I’ve always wanted to paint it. I’ll probably never paint it. Do I wallow on the floor and tell myself I’m grounding even when I feel like my roots are severed and brown? I should water my plants. Or do I eat and watch my face get rounder? Watch my body get plumper - this food taste like ashes. It’s not real. I haven’t cooked in ages. Or do I write? Do I sit and scribble little words that will never mean anything to anyone but me? They remind me that I’m not who I am and everything I fear. Maybe I’ll drink and I won’t stop even when my head is pounding even when my stomach hurts. Maybe I’m supposed to hurt. Don’t make me call my mother. Don’t make me call my mother. She won’t know what to say. She’ll say everything she’s thinking and nothing kind. My father said he was proud of me, my father said he loved me, my father was at my beck and call. He won’t answer the phone now. Oh the phone! The phone - the phone and its constant rings and buzzes announcing I’m late again. I’m late on so much - to everything. I couldn’t even arrive early to meet my end. So tell me - what am I supposed to do? You don’t know. You don’t know.
-ls