The Mute

God... My eyes burn and burn and burn and my head aches almost as never before... It's all the fucking nicotine... And the smoke of Nubian Musk and the Marlboro West clouds my room in majestic wisps of ghosts and chaos.

GoldenFinch came over tonight to watch The Age of Innocence and oh, God! How I wanted to talk to her! How I wanted to tell her! But how does one say such things? Things I'm sure she doesn't want to hear... We are too different... too different...

And she has stopped talking to me about her crush and I am so glad in a way, but otherwise devastated... because neither one of us can talk about what is on the inside... We have broken, and I, again, drift alone.

When she left, I lay shaking in the dark, in salt and soil, moistened by the brink of hyperventilation. I caught myself, smoke half a pack and called B, whose phone was busy. So I forwarded him a message through the barred window of my stained cheeks. He has been off the phone for along time now and did not call me back... or even forward to say he's tired.

And so, unacknowledged, I am dead... I am dead inside, killed twice together.

And so, I put on my Renaissance nightgown, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1, burned incense, photographed my hatred and finished the pack.

And now, drained and alone the piano presses softly on the tender chords of my neck and wills me to fold.

And I too wish to fold into it... I too wish for relief...

I saw Dr. G today and we were talking about me doing social things which are "out of character." She couldn't understand what I thought was out of character about that.

"Out of character," she said, "would be lying or doing heroin."

And I just gave a half smile and a sigh.

"Of course," I agreed.

God damn it! Don't you see how I am Manon and have lost all contact? I can't ell anyone anything and those who I thought I could slip further and further away.

Alone is where I will always come back to... It is home... it is all that I can have...

And so, with that headache, I say goodnight.