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we don't even live here
I walk around town all day getting sunburned, looking for THC edibles to send in a care package. I buy extra packs of cigarettes. I get a bottle of Vitamin K. I send Vitamin C lollypops and send a box of granola bars. I send a book of short stories by Ray Bradbury. I write a short letter and I make some quick art and I wrap up the drugs in tin foil and send it all back to Minnesota and wish I could put myself in the box and jump out at the final destination.
I send all this hoping you will stay inside, stay out of trouble. Let the manic/ mixed episode pass so you don't get locked up. If it doesn't get better, I'm going to get locked up, you say in text.
So I react and I hope that's enough to calm you down for now. For now it seems to be.
The manager threatens to kick us out if my husband won't stop wandering the streets screaming at people.
My husband gets kicked in the face and loses his wallet, his ID, his social security card, his credit cards, cash, weed, booze, electronic instruments, backpack, lots of blood. Gets a concussion and an infection and a new medical bill that will just go to collections.
I go out the next day to buy lettuce for a salad and out of nowhere a man tries to grab me and set me on fire in the middle of the day.
I've never regretted anything more in my life than letting someone talk me into selling my home and moving to Hell. That's what I call it here. Hell. I am in Hell. And my home isn't my home anymore. I live inside surrounded by my things, but I am homeless.
"Life in hell progresses slowly, although each day feels like an eternity."
I write the line in my last letter. I can't help it. I try to be silly, try to be funny. But I am sadder than sad and it's never ever going to go away.
Razor blades and Xanax and hard liquor cocktails on the balcony at sunset.
It's so much easier to take care of you, even though you are over 900 miles away, because you let me. Even though now you add the word 'brother' at the end of the phrase "I love you."
I love you, brother.
And I wonder if it's just you saving face because I've never said it back. I don't love anyone, anything. I have no feelings. I've got no heart. Can't you tell?
You're shooting dope and you never tell me how you got hurt and you forget rent is due on the first of every month and you're waiting around for your baby momma to take you back and I let it all slide into the pit of denial because it's easier to deal with someone else's problems than deal with my own.
I don't know who has it worse. I don't know why I am still here.
11:47 PM - Friday, Jul. 31, 2020
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