DEPRESSION AND DEAD THINGS
I'm growing to hate that word love. He's lying here next to me snorting through his pin-holes.
I've never even googled his breed.
His history
His name is Omar.
That name no longer feels good to me since I heard my mother say it.
She mangled the simplicity in her mouth OWE MAHHRR. I can't even say it anymore.
I call him Rumi most times. He's my roomie.
Khayyam isn't even a favorite poet, but he was Persian and cats ought be named after poets
at the time Rumi felt too big to claim for myself
even though it's what I wanted, for him
I give myself many rules to let myself know that I am an unworthy person.
To fail. To not try. To not even try.
I have a primary purpose and it is to keep myself from feeling embarrassed, looking bad, feeling foolish, stupid, ignorant but most of all rejected. To not try. To not fail. All such things.
I've been playing with old memories. Old miseries. Old missings.
Rumi is now about to heave a hair ball.
Pi is my dog. She is a Lhasa Apso. I was terrified when I got her, convinced I couldn't take care of her and it was challenging to my identity of unworthiness
I guess I am grateful that my father, in his infinite wisdom of what a fucker he is, doesn't bother to contact me.
Have you ever looked in your fathers eyes
and see the expression that lets you know
He thinks of you as a mistake from a mistake
Yeah, that's what I saw that day, finally
So easy for a parent to gaslight a child
The first key to liberate this confusion
is to recognize you are
in an escape room and not a home
It takes bravery to be kind, to try.
