Today I’m just… broken. I don’t like being broken. I can’t seem to stop being broken. When anyone tries to put me back together again, I seem to get more broken. Something cracked yesterday and I just can’t get this duct tape to stick it back together.
I’m not sleeping, which is making my cracks apparent to the outside world. I’m not hungry but I just keep eating to keep busy so that I’m not obsessing about being broken. Jay rented me lots of mindless movies for when I need a break from the obsessing about breaking, broken, mending, healing, unbreaking.
Every four hours, I sink inches deep into the cushy enveloping floor when the percocet retakes me and the stitches in my belly stop pulling for just a little while, and the deep aching just relents a bit. I can see why people never stop taking this drug. I can see why I never want to stop taking this drug. It makes the dark leather of the couch a pit of warmth, the sunlight a filtered chill that can’t touch me, and the sounds of the bird singing into an echoing lilt of memory. It makes the broken a fuzzy background for a little while.
Finger pointing, awkward silences, tired sighs. I am impatiently waiting to become unbroken.