Cockroaches.

I am a collection of tendencies, wants, obsessions, compulsions, and needs.

I am a never-ending bundle of threads going all different directions.  I am tangled.  I am inefficient.

I get stuck.

I get so overwhelmed in my thoughts, my tasks, my lists, my compulsions, my wants, my whims, that I just...stop.  I can't remember any of them, so I scribble them across my hand, the envelope, a piece of cardboard trash, I write them all out in a big, repeating list of "to-do" and "reminders" just to empty them out of my brain.  Then I look at my mile-long list and I...I just get stuck, and I stop.

I don't know what to do first.

I don't want to do anything.

I NEED to pick at my nails, chew them, file them down all the way, and pull at the cuticles until I am bleeding down to my fingertips.

I NEED to chew on my lip, check that the balls on my piercing are tight, feel for any raised pieces of skin, and pick them away until I am bleeding there, too.

I NEED to click my teeth together an even number of times, tapping each side together in such a way as to evenly account for the mismatched bite.  Then I need to fill in the space between my top and bottom jaw with my tongue and clamp down so that the gaps fill in and every tooth gets the same amount of pressure.

I NEED to find every rough part of my foot and sand it down...I want to walk on sand paper...I want these to be nothing but bone.

I want to be nothing but bone.

I am a product of my compulsions.

I am bleeding and the worst part is, I am only upset because I have run out of parts of me to pick at.  I keep running my hands over my face to look for pimples I might scratch away, or dry skin I can abrade.

I am confined by this.

I am stuck in this brain and it wants to tear me apart and it will not let me think about anything else.



It's sitting in its swing.

It finally shut up.

The things I want to do to just be able to finish a thought...and I know it's my brain, I know.  I just wish I could go outside and get drunk enough to finally sleep and take a long, long drag on a smoke so that my head clouds up and...let's...let's try this.



I open the bottle, and spill out a beautiful, dusty, bitter pill.  I pop it into my mouth and chase it with a bit of water.  The flavor lingers, and I smack my tongue with distaste.  I wait, and a little while later, the dreamy calm hits.  My mind clouds up and I relax, physically and mentally.  It's okay, and I can see exactly what I need to do.

I walk into the kitchen and I grab my smokes, my lighter, a glass, and the bottle of Jameson.  I go outside, dust off the folding chair, and sit beneath the pecan.  It's pitch black out here, and I can hear the crickets around me like predatory little hyenas, laughing at me and waiting to swarm.

I hold onto my glass from the top, shielding it from debris, and open up the whiskey with my other hand.  I pour out what I assume is a couple of shots and close her up.  I light a clove.  I lean back.

My eyelids thud shut while the smoke swirls into my world.  The whiskey is smooth and perfect and easy, like life should be.  I relax as the cockroaches plop onto my head, shoulders, thighs.  As the crickets wander up my ankles and underneath the fraying hem of my jeans.  I drift away as they carry me off.

I never, ever come back again.

Never.