Heavy

It's not fun here right now. Kaleidoscopes, usually they are transfixing because they are beautiful. My kaleidoscope is a pattern of Ashley taking cold medicine with alcohol, bedsores on my mother, shit at work that makes me genuinely homicidal at least once a day, things I want to do, things I have to do, things that come up and demand to be done while I'm considering the other two, resentment, frustration, worry, pain, loneliness. I'm really resenting among other things my inherently repelling qualities which find me in the current circumstance without anyone to care for me, about me. Which bless my cotton socks, makes me even more determined not to need anyone because it feels terrible to need and not have. I will have my hypoallergenic cats, I will. You heard it here first.

If I could be so bold as to open letter God, it wouldn't be just why, it would be why won't you fucking do something? Why does this persist? Why make her wish for death? Why take all the joy and pleasure from her life? Why does she always have to be cold? Why does she always have to feel hunger and fear pain when she can eat while not even enjoying food? This is jail. This is hell. But it's not the kind of hell that makes me want to go to heaven, it's the kind of hell that makes me wonder if there is a heaven.

We watched one of those black people movies at the hospital on Mother's Day. One of those movies that makes it hard for me to deal with white people the next day, such is my anger over a past I didn't even live, whites only signs, killing and harassing with impunity, the entire sick history. The history manifest in the drive to the hospital through the literal ghetto of east Baltimore. And still in these movies, the central character depends on the Lord to see her through, through the murder of her husband, the burning of her church by some white boys upset that Joe Frazier knocked out a white man, through everything she endured, still in church, still praying for God's intervention. Just don't understand what He's waiting for. It's time for a miracle. It's time for an answer, what ails her, when can she come home. Not to you. To us.