gingr-snaps-1q84

[gingr-snaps-1q84]

Song AM early 1

Use my soul to feed

Let me fill your need

i wont think you’re greedy

Baby

[gingr-snaps-1q84]

2022

Welcome, 2022. You're invited in. It's very cool to have you here. Almost here.

I started this account because I'm lonely --that's an okay word for it. Maybe angry, too. And sometimes diary-writing makes me feel even lonelier. I started regular journal writing as an adult during a time I felt very cut-off from my life and from the world. (As a teenager I would write for the opposite reason, because the world felt full of possibility and good intentions, and I was so effervescent about it...I was exploding with life.) I continue writing now --still an adult (?)-- maybe because it is a form of desperate reaching-out. In the pages, I'm reaching out to myself (my future self?). But here, I'm reaching out to the empathetic stranger. At least one person out there who might see me.

I have many things to be grateful for. I also climb a steep path paved with injustice. (If anyone knew my whole story, I think you might agree.) We probably all do, as humans. There are times when that path feels particularly strenuous --not safe for travel.

It's New Year's Eve and my husband came home still angry at me. He barely said a word. Me trying to encourage discussion only led to mild gaslighting, and I gave up. He went to bed. He went to bed at 8 PM.

I'm in this dark house, and I'm trying to keep my spirits up for my nine year old --who wants to stay awake until midnight. I am so tired now. I don't want to fall asleep next to him; I'm afraid I won't be able to sleep. The anxiety gets to me, the worried thoughts rush in.

I'm not sure what this is but it's not hope, or love.

Welcome, 2022. You're invited in. In another realm, it's a party over here, and we're celebrating in style.

[gingr-snaps-1q84]

I am the anti-sexiest.

I wear my flannel daily. It’s red and not my color, really. I haven’t shaved under my arms or my legs for weeks. It doesn’t make me feel powerful; it doesn’t make me feel more like a feminist (which I am). It makes me feel dry and rough around the edges. I would prefer to...shave. 

But you there --you there on the street, or on the Instagram, or wherever you are-- you can’t tell one way or the other whether I’ve been using my razor. This is what I hope you can tell: that I don’t want to be seen by you. That’s why I wear this bag suit. You can’t tell what sort of figure I have or have not. I hope you see me and think --pig slop. 

I am an owned woman. But my owner doesn’t want me. See, I take off my bag suit for him; I smell like all the beauty of far-away lands; my skin is as balmy as a summer’s night. Curves and angles like a desert-scape. And I am wanting. I am needing. He says, I-am-sorry-I-don’t-have-a-want-to-a-desire-to-but-it’s-not-you-promise and he rolls over and leaves me rolling over the edge of myself. 

But look at all I have to give. 

But see all this that needs to be filled.