I can’t sleep.  As in, haven’t slept in a few nights really, and I’m not the kind of person with things like insomnia.  I’m pre something or other.  I have to be, though I’m not quite sure because I’m not having seex anymore.  The Pill told me when I was pre something or other.  It measured out my moods in empty foiled packets. But for the past two months, I’ve been going at it solo.  Hence the have to be: I’ve been crying, and I haven’t cried since Halloween.

The first tears fell tonight after I had rage seex with myself.  After anger masturbation, a rage of men, at men, slid out with the first tear.  The kind buried so deep you didn’t know it was there.  Latent.  But, it slips out when I anger fcuk myself, frustrated, and uneven, like a child struggling to be released from their crib at bedtime.  Restless, my God, that’s it.  I’m so fcuking restless.  Twitchy and scratchy and movey (it should be a word) and frustrated. 

I’m wearing my hair curly again, and I feel the chaos inside.  I’ve been fine, “working on me.”  Fuck it.  I’m so sick of saying that shite.  Work on yourself.  Ew.  Enough.  I’ve done that.  I’ve done that.  I’ve DONE THAT!!!  If I hear myself tell one more person about my hobbies and friends and job and dog, I’m going to … I hate when I do that.  I just threatened just there.  Did you see that?  If I hear one more… yeah, big talker, what you gonna do about it?  I hate that I’m empty threats even to myself.  And, more importantly, I hate the word HOBBIES.  It’s terrible and reminds me of a fat freckled kid I grew up with who even in 6th grade did the comb-over.  I think of wooden horses.  I’m so ill over the selling of my life.  I’m out there working it, selling myself, really, telling people about my interests, and the worst bit is I’ve been pedaling to myself. 

When the rage climaxes and tears heave out with the breathing, I realize, in the silence, that I’ve built a thick heavy wall of funny stories and interests around my heart.  I don’t know how to let anyone in anymore.  And the most uncomfortable I get is when someone asks me how I am while looking me in the eye, pausing in a stare, waiting for a reply.  I look away, and then look back ensuring I make eye contact so they don’t ask again.  I lie to their face.  Convincingly.  “I’m good. Really good.”  I shake my head between good and really.  “Yeah.”  They smile back, and I want to just cry.

I’m not fine; I’m terribly sad.  I’ve become craft dog lover work lady, but I’m getting hard.  I’m worried because I used to be so much softer than this hard armor of a woman.  I hate that I’m this hard.  I don’t realize until the release cleaves me like a peach, revealing the hard center of a stone fruit.  It needs to be coaxed from its lodge and roots. 

I feel alone, even beside the hum of the pink curled body beside me.  I worry this is how it will always be.  Me, with my “I’m fine”s and hobbies, trying to sleep, restless.