I cannot believe I'm here. I have been driven to new limits of my being. I was mad at you, and as I lay in bed without sleeping for the fourth night in a row due to your careless handling of my heart, I needed something to fill the absence you left in your wake.
Get up and go smoke a cigarette.
No, I need something stronger.
How about a shot of whiskey?
I don't want to taste its unpleasant tones that remind me of my past.

I just took a pain pill for the headache that always accompanies my tears...
Take another. Two won't hurt.
I don't want to wait to feel better, I need immediate relief. I won't have enough rest to get through tomorrow, another disappointment in store.
Take another. Take it
differently.
So I snorted a Vicodin. And I'm not proud. I'm new to this level of desperation, and oh my, how I pity all those who have ever done this before me.

Until.
Until now.
Until, now, I feel.
I feel better.
A new sensation arises in my face and in the back of my throat. I can practically feel the neurons dancing around in my brain, in my skull.
Inside of me. In my heart and body and mind.
In my skin. Dancing.

I remember we used to dance. Your hand cradled mine with the delicacy you always use with me. Every word you speak you're framing a moment in which you think I will finally
lose it
if you're not careful enough.
Do not handle me like a child. I cry, not like a child, but as a woman weeping for a man that is dead to her before he's even left the room.
And you shut down as soon as you see a single ******* tear.

Am I not worth any effort after all this time?
When I make you mad, we talk about it and I apologize. I'm so sorry.
So sorry.

I will retreat into myself. I will reach my deserted island where you can't reach me.
No one will get to me here.
I'm surfing waves on seas you will never sail.
I'm building castles in sand that you can't ever put your hands on.
I am catching rays from an alien sun.
I am experiencing something completely new! And you are only feeling my cold silence.
That's new, isn't it?

Instead of hearing my pleas to mend our busted road of communication, you see me happily
waving from the other side of a massive divide.
I'm so sorry.
I'm smiling.
I can't hear you.
I'm not that sorry anymore.

And for a moment, I wonder which you prefer.
I wonder if you'll be happy with my new habit for the first several weeks only because you don't know what's mellowed me out so well.
I am steamrolled, my true emotions flattened on the ground around me.
Beyond my reach.

I'm not reaching out.
To you.
To me.

I'm surfing seas. I'm building castles, of which I am the queen, a luxury you never allowed for me.

This is new. And I'm not sorry.