Unhealthy.

I don’t want to describe any hurt feelings,
Or rake the coals over for any lost meanings,
I have no desire to dissect everything,
Or get to the bottom of your horrid mood swings,
There’s no use in spending a shred more on you,
This wide open freedom was long overdue,
Your venomous essence and landscape of doom,
Your sour-puss presence that swallows a room,
I feel many stones lighter since going my way,
That shadowy darkness is drifting away,
After over a year’s worth of character play,
Now I can focus on myself everyday,
I’m tired and weary of vampires like you,
Who do what you like and like what you do,
Getting over on anyone you can spit your lies to,
And you’ve got a chip on both shoulders, to boot,
The effect of seeing true colors at last,
Has been to make me question our collective past,
That pedestal crumbled and dumped you on your ass,
The truth has set me free to get far away, and fast;
And I know damned well that you’ll lie to yourself,
About the unfairness of the hand you’ve been dealt,
To transfer all blame is a game you can’t seem to help,
I finally comprehend how bad you’ve been for my health.

Tears.

 

I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…

the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.

I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.

She was such a miniature adult, always….

I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.

 

Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)

The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.