Poor Bastard

Here it comes. This day.

Honestly, I’m not feeling too bad about that, despite getting up a few hours late today, on a day where there’s so much that I have to do. Or in a house that *really* should be getting put together by now.

Or, with a work phone that’s still been a brick almost the entire year. Second wave is coming, and I should start storing extra acorns like the squirrels do. Oh, and I should pay my rent.

I had a dream last night. I haven’t done that in a while, so let’s go.

I remember being by a stream, I believe I have seen it before, and as I dig I believe I have pictures of myself there when I was quite young, probably 19. I believe it’s the waterfall, more like a little tumble in a stream that if you stand back and disregard the distance between each bump then looks like a magnificent waterfall, a little north of the town center in Ashland NH.

There is someone that I should be checking in on up there, he was quite a nice man. Also, there’s stuff I should be checking in on.

The boy actually took a picture of me this last weekend, and I’m beginning to see why he doesn’t. He’s so incredibly sensitive, and can’t handle any kind of criticism at all.

Luckily I had no criticism to give, it was actually really cool. But I can see that being a dangerous situation if I ever did.

I’m not sure I’m going to be able to handle someone that sensitive in my life, I’m not sure if I want to. I mean fuck that – I have had to handle so much. Yes myself personally – I’m not sure how much I’m ready to even begin there – but culturally I seriously have had to hunt down family members through the bills of sale written by the man who raped them and yet, asshole, you’re concerned that I mused about the light balance in your photo. OK.

White male fragility is real. The fact that they’re even allowed to indulge in that bullshit proves that racism is real.

I want to call my side dude again, and honestly, I have to spend some time unpacking the bullshit about why I don’t even dare let him be my main dude. Internalized racism.

I mean I’ll just come out and say it – Any of these other dudes, if I got pregnant, I could just tell any one of them it was their baby and they’d have to deal. They have no idea what I even look like beyond having a better ass than a white girl, they have no idea how our facial features would have cooperated (my ex and I would have had the most beautiful children – too bad he’s a psycho – I just wrote my first song tag and yes I’m finally wearing my headphones again) to know when they look into a child’s eyes if it’s theirs or not.

The unfortunate part, and why I always aborted every single child at the last minute is that, I know, the child knows. The uncertainty of my poor poor brother when he tries to talk to my dad, he knows that the love is earned rather than intrinsic, even though no one has ever admitted it, and I don’t know if anyone even consciously knows. My mother is the kind of woman that would let her doubt become a static behind the scream of the lies she tells herself over and over, and my father doesn’t have a mind big enough in that regard to imagine what his wife does while he’s away on business. But he knows my brother is not his, subconsciously, and has never loved him as such.

He is my brother. And I love him, and I would die for him. I have a picture of me, when he was just home from the hospital, it was summer, on the front steps of the house we loved only because we lived there. I was holding him, I was so small for my age, he was so big for his (he was barely a week?) and I was holding on for dear life and the look on my face, a furrowed brow scowl, I looked like I was going to steal that child and kill anyone who tried to stop me.

I wish I had. I so just wish I had.

And I will never do that to, or for, anyone else. I don’t want to make a child that has to live this life.

I went straight in deep today, nose dive. I don’t know if I even can.

The waterfall in my dream, I was pregnant when I went there. The very nice man, who I will check on today, did not judge me for a minute when he found out I no longer was. The heartbeat rhythm of my typing as it slows, the memory in my finger tips because honestly I can’t see through the tears.

What am I going to do when they finally do away with mechanical keyboards, it’s like those people trained to play piano and find that these fingers, too long for gloves, with bones that feel the pressure of every touch unlike those people with fat fleshy fingertips and no sensory awareness, I will just become junk. I’m feeling sad.

I feel like I may have missed my chance to have a good life.

We’ll see what happens.

I have to call my ex today anyway.

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