I wanna stop fighting. I’m tired and I just wanna stop. You know there’s nothing to say or no way to say to the people I love that I’m tired and I wanna stop fighting I wanna stop fighting this thing. This thing that you’ve never seen that maybe you’ve felt just maybe in those moments those moments which have grown and multiplied over the last year or so those moments when I looked at you and you knew I wasn’t seeing you or anything you knew. I wanna stop fighting this thing this unseen, unseeable thing. I want to stop fighting against this nothing this unknowable unsolvable nothing. I want to stop medicating myself into nothing I want to stop feeling this this way this way this feeling that is so immediate and yet so abstracted and yet so important and overwhelming and so nothing so devastating in its nothingness. I want to get a hold on myself again I want to grasp myself and hold her steady this thing this thing that I am and say, “This. This is me.” “This is what makes up my self. This exists. This is. This is.” I want to be able to hold her steady and know. Know that I am and that I am this thing. And then I want to put down the banner and let my arms hang down and my breath rush out and I want to let go and I don’t want to have to swim back. I want all these many things. These many things that are so at odds with each other. I want to change this soft, so soft this bruised and flaccid body and wring out of it something new. But I don’t know if that something new is really a thing that I want that the want is maybe not something that is in me but something that is on me that makes me hate such a foreign and invasive emotion that makes me hate this body this being this flesh of my flesh that is so strong and so compact and so true to form and so strong so surprisingly strong. I don’t know I just don’t know. I am not a man but I do not feel that I am such a thing as a woman I exist in a vacuum between as with everything neither here nor there. I AM a woman i am i am i am and I don’t mind it don’t want to be anything else I just want to be here between. myself. as always. as it should be. God, how I want to write that book that short story that long novel that American dream the 21 century novel that books of poems, this book of journal of life in lyric form. How I want to LIVE Do you hear me God? God to whom I am not sure of have never quite prayed to have never gotten down on knees and said straight to Dear God Eloi Eloi but sometimes have thought it Dear god I want to live but I’m not sure how and sometimes it hurts and I’m not sure how to protect myself and not sure how to say no how to say yes how to say help me god help me how to stave off this fear and this lonely empty nothingness. I want to stop sometimes so bad so bad. I see the places where once I wounded my body and part of me cries and part of me curses and part of me cries holyholyholy while part of me closes eyes or averts head and looks away in shame. And I take nine pills a day different shaped different colored and nothing cries holyholyholy but some small voice whimper whispers hope maybe hope maybe not. And I fear fear what I would be without them fear what I will be with every one of the three or the two that are supposed to heal the invisible and fear tear and rage against the thing i fear the terror, whole body bone shaking dread that I will wake or come to the end of a day and find that I have lost whatever talent I might have had that as I swallowed down a round white pill I shit out my passion and my drive and my gift that thing I never trusted that I had and rarely spoke of aloud but held onto in the darkest of my hellish nights of self doubt and impossibility. And even as I shake against this thing as I rage, mute imperfect vulnerable I rage against the fear that I will one day wake and find that I no longer can “rage, rage against the dying of the light” and that the baby really has been thrown out with the bath water and that brilliant as the cure was we really have lost the patient. so to speak. but I’m no Hemingway no Thomas I haven’t even made it close to that far. but if I don’t keep on keeping on I’ll never have the chance. I don’t know how to say it don’t know how to explain my exhaustion explain my fear and revulsion and despair and my love without sounding so young that it negates the point or makes me feel ill just listening from inside my head like a younger sibling with my ear pressed against the wall. I don’t know how to make these clumsy cumbersome words form these lumbering deleterious thoughts without making them more so. I don’t know how to uncross myself and my ungainly coltish mental legs and find a way to choose between here and there and nowhere how to make loss and lost real when none of it is anything but immaterial in this grand scheme, be there a grand scheme, of things.