Member-only story
No One’s Watching, So Here’s My Brain, Unedited
The Weird Honesty Of Being Alone With Myself
Note: Not a member? No problem, find the full story here.
Practical and mundane living never found its place in great poetry, so I let it hide here, in my ordinary one.
If magnesium really relieved muscle pain, then maybe sleep wouldn’t be this battlefield of anxieties.
I should really schedule an appointment with my therapist, I think.
Can my migraine be linked to my posture?
[Text from Mom]: Pls take the clothes out the dryer, I forgot. Thanks honey!
Ok, so I should start going once a week probably, but why keep a schedule? Why not go just whenever I feel like it?
It begins like this. Then, a sharp turn — almost absurd worry juxtaposed with the emotional weight fogging my thinking. A tiny, fixable crisis alongside a decade of the irretrievable.
Ten years in these letters, the ink turned to a ghost of your voice. (Okay Sylvia Plath, I hear you.)
God, is that sanseveria drowning in its pot?
I can’t even care for a plant, who entrusted me with a thing that’s alive? Is there no scrutiny anymore? Was there…ever? Pf.
I should write a poem about how I think of him at least three times a day.
Is it OCD that I can’t stand the painting on the wall being tilted just an inch too far?
