mine. these things are mine. I didn’t call ghosts this time. well. I did look over though and I did invite them, the three of them, gently though like a cough. just if they wanted to come as protection. I use dogs. I feel most protected in pack. it was hard to look at the picture of my dad with his oxygen on and know this was coming. the image of the woman crying on top of the man in Midsommar. losing your whole family, being orphaned, flashes of this and then glancing at Ebby and her yellow eyes on the corner. she is perched and watching. this is when I want the plain white room but I had an image of me in a straight jacket. how awful that would feel. not to move. I want less of this pressure. I think take the pressure off.

I lay my head so I can see Ebby and so I can also see this other fox to the left of me. an old framed painting. I look at my hand. I have one golden heart drawn near the top of my left wrist. a tradition I always do to mark the first hour: mark it on my hand with sharpie in the form of a heart.  a reminder that I am on drugs. that I must both submit to them and challenge them at the same time but to remember my processes are distortive by initiation. my intention was to distort things. I got up to move the items on my night table. I admired it. I had uncovered it. I had recently draped it with a red Spanish shawl, but I had just reorganized the nightstand which was soothing now. I could see inside of it, everything stacked neatly: flashlight, box cutter, pepper spray, boxes of superstitious things and aromatherapy oil.  I wanted to be able to find pens quickly, knives quickly. the table  was a gift from a friend before she moved to LA: an antique wooden table, two pieces that stack and an opening inside, where I kept all my dream journals and the others. condoms too.

“no one has ever fucked me in this bed,” I say aloud.

also this is 2020. keep up.


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