Author: Hattie Zubie

I was raised in Chelsea, Massachusetts and am the youngest of five girls. I started writing when I was 12 years old as an escape from an abusive father. I came out when I was 25 and within a couple years entered into a relationship with a woman I would marry and then divorce. My writing reflects the difficulties I face with my parents, once violent and drug addicted, still emotionally neglectful. I also share openly how difficult it was to be in an unhealthy, unsuccessful marriage. I feel my best when I am outdoors, on a road trip, hiking or mountain biking. I am constantly learning what I want in life and simultaneously yearning for something greater.
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no sleep? no problem.

Today I will make a full pot of coffee. I will dash a little cinnamon in my freshly ground beans. I will watch the sunrise, casting giant reflections on my wall through the windows. A delicate pink glow. I haven’t slept in days, maybe weeks. It started out sporadic and has become consecutive nights in a row. I fall asleep and a few hours later I’m awake. Plagued by unsettling dreams, my body getting hot and then cold. Blankets on, blankets off, just the sheet, no sheet… goosebumps… and so on. No sleep can make you feel delusional. I ran from a giant, fat moth last night. It was chasing me, coming at me franticly with sporadic, wild wings. It could have been a bat or a night bird or…. I screamed and backed away from it only to tumble and fall onto the pavement. Scrapping the palm of my hand, that stingy burn that makes you feel like an eight year old who just fell off their bike. My to-go coffee cup and cell phone were spread across the sidewalk. I jumped up and quickly looked around, did anyone see? Surely they would ask if I was alright. Surely they might think I was a crazy woman. Seeing only my reaction and most likely, not the moth. As if knowing about the moth would make them think me any less crazy. I laughed hysterically the whole drive home replaying the incident over and over.

I am hysterical. That is, I feel like my life is in hysterics at the present moment. It’s my insomnia. It’s visiting, uninvited and won’t go away. It likes my new loft. Thinks its cozy, cool, and makes lots of interesting noises. It is like a needy, annoying, and often rude acquaintance trying desperately to be my best friend. How do you even know me? Why do you always know where to find me? Are you spying on me? Are you maybe a little scary? Your desire to be around me possibly a little dangerous? Yes, yes and yes!

Insomnia makes me itchy. When I am that tired, over tired, so tired that I can’t sleep even if my insomnia decided to take a load off for the night, I get itchy. My eyes, my skin, my scalp all itches. And then I get a stuffy nose and sometimes I start sneezing and then my eyes water like fountains. And they burn. They burn from rubbing and from being open too long and from the night air that they are not supposed to be so exposed to drying them out. They burn. They look the way they feel and feel the way they look. I am allergic to insomnia. My body rejects it as sleep rejects my body. It is a vicious sickness. I’m all glassy eyed and zombie like. I have a hard time laughing at what I think is funny, thanking someone for what they’ve done that’s so kind, annunciating my words, clearly verbalizing my feelings, thoughts and opinions. It appears I only have one emotion. One expression. One speed. A zombie. For sure.

I would like my unwelcome guest to leave. Go on a vacation, go home, go for a long drive, get lost, go for a swim, go to the moon, go to the market, go to the movies, go to the park, go to their favorite aunts house, go to a cabin in the woods, go for a run, go for a bike ride, go for a hike, let out some energy, get tired. Take a rest.

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Home

Sitting on my leather couch. Legs stretched out in front of me, ankles crossed. There’s a ticking from my ceiling fan, if it had a pull chain swinging from the motion of its propellers, that would be it. Pull chain absent, from down here it sounds like a distant water drip into a metal pan. After searching for the drip on my first night here, I discovered the culprit. When there is so much open space with no barriers, sounds tend to get lost. Their origins hard to pinpoint. They echo, spread like smoke. They could be anywhere, come from anywhere. The sound moves, plays tricks on your ears. Have you ever felt like you belonged to a space? Like maybe you were born there or should have been. Maybe it was in another life. That’s how I feel here. I feel just as much connected as if I watched every brick that built this wall laid one by one. Or as if I laid them myself. Like I have held them in my hands. Felt  the weight in my palms, the gritty texture against the inside of my fingers. They are familiar to me. Like an old friend but with more history, like my grandfather. 

I’ve had too many cups of coffee, my bladder tells me so and I resist the urge to get up again. It would be too warm In here if I had on more than this flimsy tank top and loose boxer shorts. I am just on the edge of being comfortable. Another body in here would surely kick me off. The sun, shining through the 10ft arched windows, making its way across the floor and onto my toes. So warm it’s hard to believe it’s out there and I am in here. There is a very subtle but effective breeze from the fan above me. Just enough. Still I smell the slight scent of warmth from under my arms. You know when you’re not sweating, but not exactly dry and your deodorant from the night before has faded. It’s not a bad smell. It’s the smell of being. I rather enjoy it. Saturday mornings off are a new thing for me. I haven’t shaken the impulse to go do something. It’s more of a feeling that I should go do something. It seems like everyone does. I have a conversation in my head, reminding myself that sitting down on my couch with a cup of coffee and reading in the morning is doing something. It’s as productive as going to the hardware store or emptying the dishwasher. Perhaps a different kind of productive. But nonetheless. Why is productivity that way? Why is re-centering and nurturing your mind thought to be lazy? Why is there a certain time of day when it’s considered appropriate? Why do we wind down at night and gear up in the mornings? I find in the mornings I need to be grounded. I need to connect with myself. I’m so easily stirred up, fragile in that way. Sensitive. Both mentally and physically I need a sense of calm, quiet, peace. I am quite content with doing what others might see as, well, nothing. 

Since I’ve been here, I’ve killed three bugs with the back of my hard cover book by Michelle Obama. It just happens to be the only thing around that’s hard and easy to grab. I find it quite fitting actually. I appear to be Becoming less afraid of them. Meaning not that I’m okay with them around but that I can kill them myself and not have to call for back up or give myself irrational anxiety. Perhaps it is because of the sheer size of the space they are in. Everything looks so much smaller. The walls are quite grand. Massive. The ceilings with their exposed beams and pipes are soaring. Everything feels almost open to the sky, majestic but in a raw, earthy, dusty and also minimalistic way. Industrial but not cold. Clean but sprinkled with cobwebs that are out of reach or tucked in corners unseen.

 I feel as though I would never tire of this view. Never want for more yet always finding more. I can grow here. I feel like I already have. I’ve both grown and been born in this space. It is a space of past, present and future, simultaneously. The three have joined together, met at the same moment. Become inseparable, interchangeable. The need and ability to distinguish between the three has vanished, it is no longer necessary and yet there’s something so poignant.  It is a place of pure being. The purest of existence. The most beautiful of existence. Where imagery, words and songs live. Where the very bricks hold your hand when needed, push you forward, let you fall back, give you guidance, give you a hug, give you inspiration, comfort. Listen. Absorb your voice, your feelings  keep your secrets to themselves. Tell stories of grit, strength, failure, power, sorrow, joy. Provide you shelter and substance. The creaks in the floor boards like an old book. A space can be that for you. All on its own. Like a version of yourself in building form. A sturdy foundation. Home. 

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Words of Advice

A wise man always said to me “Save your money.”

I am set to close on a downtown loft, a dream of mine since my divorce about two years ago. It’s the second home purchase I’ve made, the first being when I was 23 years old. A dreadful process that I said I hoped to never go through again. I bought my first condo in 2009, after/during the market crash and financial crisis when no bank wanted to give anyone a loan. It was so stressful I lost hair, weight, was traumatized and still convinced it cast a dark doomy gloomy shadow on my very first home. You might think I had learned my lesson but oh, not me. I choose to buy my second home during a global pandemic when most of the country is shutdown, people are losing their lives, businesses, jobs and can’t make their rent. Throw on top of that the fact that I am self employed and you have a perfect storm of a shitshow home buying experience. Throw on top of THAT a super quick closing, just barely a month between accepted offer and handing over the keys. Mayhem. Craziness. Nevertheless, the place is mine in just a weeks time. Why do I find myself making the biggest and most stressful purchase of a humans life in the midst of national crisis? Again?! Maybe I like the challenge. Maybe I don’t let the worlds failures deter me from what I want and know that I am ready for. I’d like to add that I’m aware of how fortunate I am to be in the position I am when so many others are struggling. I am grateful and I do not take it for granted one second.

I’m most proud that both of these homes I bought on my own. With no financial help, be it from family or a significant other. I bought them with my own money, that I saved working my ass off, it’s my name on every line on the pile of papers signed on closing day. Growing up I didn’t have an example of success. I wasn’t taught to save my money or pay my bills on time or build good credit. My only example was of what not to do. My parents had too many kids, not enough money. We were often on welfare, had stacks of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter and would sit in front of the hot oven with the door open in the morning when the heat was turned off. I didn’t know much but I knew I didn’t want THAT. I wasn’t even sure of how NOT to have it. I just saw what was in front of me and around me and I knew the life I wanted was in the other direction. So that’s where I looked and my eyes have been set there ever since.

I used to feel like I had to have a certain amount of money or success just to prove I wasn’t like my parents. But I don’t feel like I have to prove anything to anyone anymore, I only have myself to show that if I want something and if I have a dream or a goal, I can make it happen. If it’s truly what I want, I can do it. I will be forever grateful to the person who put that little bug in my ear. “Save your money” is all he said. That man is my best friends father. For 20 years he’s been a constant in my life, a prime example of what a devoted father and husband should be and my go to for guidance on college, career and finances. I hear his voice in my head every time I look at my savings account, I heard it when I bought my first home and Im hearing it now as I embark on a new journey. Save your money. He didn’t have to tell me what to do with it, he knew I could figure that out on my own.

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drive

keep treading water like this
you're bound to tire out
keep trusting someone will save you
you’re bound to drown
i only give one good chance
and then I miss someone
won’t hold grudges but I don’t forgive easily
i could forget if my gut would stop reminding me

are you ever genuine?

i might stop looking behind closed doors for
your intentions 
if you’d stop shutting them
i’ll stop hiding under blankets
if you stop scaring me with shadow games
i’ll stop running up the stairs 
if you stop chasing me

can we be honest?
do we know the meaning?

if your insecurities would stop screaming 
you might hear what I’m saying
you always beat around the bush
saying a whole lot of nothing but your talking 
doesn’t stop
your mouth is moving but I can’t make out a 
damn thing you say
and I wish for a second
you could stop and I could stop
and we could look at one another
step over the pile of shit we’ve been 
tossing all our faults in
and hold on to each other
until we can stop holding onto 
who is right and who is wrong

if this is all we have
let's leave it here
let it live in this space
let it spin around in its own dust storm

you brushed it off 
like a change in personality should 
have been expected
like maybe you knew it was coming
i sure didn’t
the carousel we rode, a teasing rotation
made it too easy to jump on and off
you know I love you though
i know you love me too
we almost love too much to be angry
love too much to turn our backs
i thought maybe that was the case
but I think you just told me your 
version of goodbye

could we just say what we mean?
do we know how?


i still can’t imagine life without you
even when you make it too intense
and your wordiness too complicated
i’d like to simplify with you 
i don’t know where to begin

i drove around today looking for you
with no intention of finding you anywhere
and no idea what to do with you if I did
i might try to embrace it all away

do you think we could hold on 
long enough to forget?

straight through awkward touches
dig ourselves out of the hole of ill intentions
passed the first kiss
the unraveling confessions 
the premature devotion
our future gave us more comfort then 
the present moment
we had catching up to do


i drove around today 
i like the feeling of leaving and heading 
somewhere better
thoughts come out when the coast is clear
when I was kid, long car rides meant 
we were going somewhere
leaving the house of terrors behind
at least for a little while


                my aunt always said 
         driving was the greatest privilege
                     she said 
      you can get in your car and go anywhere


i always imagined I would be grateful for it too
reminded myself to remember where it can take me
what it can save me from
watching closely
memorizing what foot pressed what pedals
what direction to turn the keys
R meant reverse
D meant drive
i wanted to make sure I knew what to do 
when I had the privilege 
funny, 
I 
didn’t 
trust
anyone 
would 
teach 
me 


my body doesn’t know how to 
do things without caution
spent most of my life in two gears 
safe on land or drowning
i learned early on how to 
handle dangerous situations
head down, quiet, stay unheard, unseen
but l i s t e n
listen scrupulously 


are you staying?
are you with me?

or have you drifted off somewhere I can’t see
has the current taken you
the winds too strong for you to paddle through
the moon not bright enough
the sky not clear enough
i’m afraid of the hole that might
be left in your absence
like a flower ripped out of the ground
roots dangling and ragged

your body will take you in the 
direction you set your eyes

are looking at me?
are you looking?

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B.

your face
your eager smile
wisps of unruly hair that insist on 
slipping from behind your ear
you self consciously tuck them back
silently reprimanding
i brush your hand away
leave them I say
nothing looks out of place


mutual understanding
dancers in the kitchen
you watch my hands cut carrots
you watch my hands
stained the color of bleeding beets
you watch my hands 
peel the flaky layers of onion
its thin, crackling shell sticking to my fingers
you watch my hands slice cucumber
it’s my hands
you watch




sip wine from lavender cups
we sit across from a round table
we sit cross legged on the carpet
we eat leafy salad
we slurp french soup
we laugh but also there is quiet
not silence
quiet
comfortable quiet


there are moments i hold onto that could have 
m o v e d mountains
intense certainty met with bold confessions 
met with tears of scared joy
...and mountains m o v e d
a narrative we only partially understood
but we believed even so


i applaud the innocence of the unknown
when we had no reason to believe anything other 
than exactly what we  w a n t e d
i envy that short period of time 
when there is only good
seldom does it last long
i hope next time i remember 
that I’ll miss it some day
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shifter

look at the shape i’m in
all fragile limbs
like tree fingers
spread out like vines
veins of energy
vibrating
i am light
traveling like you’d never believe
faster than your eyes can long for
such weight 
i bring you down
but I am flying overhead
you reach but fall short
voices carry
always listening 
sailing up your ear canal
i am opening
shifting
spreading
leaking into unfelt crevices
a spineless serpent
a rift in your disposition 
i am dissonance
a quake in your calm
a desperate reprieve in waiting 
i can feel it
you can feel it
it eludes us
i am the shape i’m in
a mass of interference 
a giant, fragile stem
protruding from rooted rumble
half rotten, half thriving
choking on my own birth
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a lifetime of isolation

I feel so alone. And not just now, in quarantine. I always feel alone. Sometimes though, the aloneness drifts beneath the surface. And other times, it rises, nearly drowning me. Today it feels like that. I can literally feel the people close to me moving further away. They reach out less, never when I need them the most. I feel like an island. Like everyone knows where I am, they can see me but they can’t get to me. Somehow, they don’t  realize that I’m not well. That I want to be saved. I am alone, in my thoughts, in my worries. I’m alone in the way I speak and act. I’m alone in the way I express myself. I’m alone in what I eat, drink. I’m alone in how I sleep, or lack there of, and the way I dream. I’m alone in my nightmares. Nobody sees the world through my eyes. There is no similar lens. I’m alone in my aloneness. Everyone is so content where they are. I’m alone in my want for more. I’m alone in my need for expansion, exploration and growth. I crave to be opened, wide. I crave to be seen, heard, felt. I speak and a different language comes out, a sound unrecognized, unsympathized. I feel so much. Too much. Deeply, profoundly deep. I feel everything from everyone. I feel it 10 times harder. I want to scream. I am screaming. Nobody ever hears me. I am silenced, gagged. I see nobody like me. My words fall on deaf ears, voiceless tongues, blind eyes. Hello. My god will I ever feel a part of something. Will I ever feel connected? I am so alone and I am surrounded by people. I am in a crowded room and I am in isolation. I am alone. Familiar faces, I see how we are alike, smiles, almond eyes, cheekbones, we even sound the same, our laughter. I am alien to them. I long for them to know me. I long to be understood. I am always asking. Can you hear me? Do you hear me? Will you listen? Will you? I am alone, in my home, in my family, in my world. This world, where I do not belong. I’m so tired of the noise inside my head, constant. Thoughts roped together by loneliness. Those thoughts are safe there. It is the only place they are free. If I let them out, when I let them out they quickly learn, they are not wanted elsewhere. They are not welcome. They are told to shrink, they are told they are not deserving. They are dismissed. Somehow it is too small for them out there, they’re confined by limiting walls. In here, they are growing, they are swelling, bulging, they are running in endless fields and they never tire. 

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quarantine

It’s been 48 days since I last went into work. At least 48 days since I went out over my best friends house for dinner and wine. Over 48 days since I met any of my friends out for drinks. Over 48 days since I spent a Sunday at my parents house or had game night with my sisters. I miss the hours of talking on a park bench under the moon, deep discussions over coffee about monogamy, infidelity, politics, rituals, sleep cycles, dating, evolving friendships, goals, dreams, spirituality, purpose. I miss eye contact, you know the kind that’s so intense it’s tangible. I miss the connection you feel in physical presence, when you’re sharing the same air space. I miss smiling at strangers seated at the bar around me, the mutually shared and respected but separate reasons we are all there: a silent understanding.

I don’t miss routine. I don’t miss looking at schedules. I don’t miss feeling as though I need to be a thousand things to a hundred people. I don’t miss being stretched too thin. I don’t miss the leg and back aches that come with standing for 10+ hours a day. I don’t miss feeling like I have to say yes, have to stay late, have to come in early, have to be happy, excited, enthusiastic, eager. I don’t miss being “on” all the time. I don’t miss feeling so exhausted from constant talk that I have nothing left when I get home. I don’t miss feeling so physically worn that the weekend serves only as recovery time.

My quarantine life has gone through many phases. Hours staring off into space. Days curled up on the couch reading. Drawing the same silhouette for weeks until I mastered it (got bored with it). Doodling with sharpies in a swirly daze. Writing poems and essays. Depression. Anxiety. Wine. Lots of wine. Pot brownies to help me sleep. Panic. Watching my checking account dwindle. Nightmares. FaceTime with friends. Group chats with sisters about our fear over my parents not making it through this fucking virus. Worry. Thankful for a break from work. Anxiety over a break for work (will I lose my clients??). Staying up late. Going to sleep early. Sleeping in. Waking up early. Avoiding grocery stores. Excitement over a full fridge and cabinets. Stocking up on food. Watching my fridge empty out. Waiting for grocery deliveries. Isolating myself in isolation. Avoiding calls and texts. Looking at my phone, does nobody want to talk to me? Endless scrolling. Watching the news. Not watching the news. Long, hot showers.

And finally, working out. For maybe the first time ever I look forward to it. I really push myself: shakey legs, sore triceps, burning abs. I know it makes sense, now there’s actual time to work out, but I think it’s a little deeper than that. I’ve never had a moment in my life where I wasn’t distracted by the “have to’s”. Life has always been about working hard, playing hard, get up early, work out, go to work, eat a healthy dinner, get to bed early. Repeat. I could never really do it. I’m not driven by peer pressure. Falling ill to the sickness of comparison has done nothing but make me feel less than. I’ve never been a morning person but I know people who can wake up at 5 a.m and go to spin class. I envied them but wondered, why am I still not doing it?! I was worried I lacked motivation and self discipline. In reality I never lacked motivation or self discipline. I was always trying to fit into what society made me believe was the way I HAD to do things. To be honest, work exhausted me so badly I couldn’t even fathom adding a workout to my mornings.

Suddenly, a gift. Time. We are constantly being distracted by what we have to do, need to do and should do. It doesn’t leave room for the things we want to do. We have to go here, leave there, drop this somewhere, pick up something, buy these, return those. There are so many conversations we are obligated to have, parties we’re obligated to attend, bodies we’re obligated to whip into shape…like we aren’t the narrators of our own stories. I have often felt helpless in my own life, like I didn’t have the options I wanted or choices I wanted. I’m a hard worker and often find I work myself too hard. It’s my own fault but it’s also what I’ve been conditioned to do. I feel like I am not giving it my all unless I am squeezing in that last client at what should be the end of my day. If I don’t want to cry at the thought of giving another happy greeting or feel too mentally and physically drained to even drive home, did I even work? It’s always been a question of can I do it? And the answer is always well, yes I can. But just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

How sad is it that it took a global pandemic to remember how good it felt to finish a book? And not just the feeling of accomplishment but also the feeling of loss, knowing you’ve read the last word, closed it for the last time. When was the last time I took more than a five minute shower or soaked in a bath? How long has it been since I went a whole day without checking email? Have I ever spent a Saturday out on the deck in the sun with a book, or drawing pad? It took a global pandemic for me to work out for my own pleasure not because I feel pressured by society standards. How sad that I had to lose the freedom of seeing people whenever I want in order to know who I truly want to spend more time with. How sad that now I’m afraid to lose it. I started this quarantine worried, like I was losing my sense of normalcy. Now I’m afraid to lose the quality it brought to my life. How do I make sure I return to the world with an actual sense of balance? How do I make sure I don’t fall into the endless rabbit hole of success, hard work and people pleasing? It feels as though there is no other option. I absolutely cannot go back to that… but I can’t stay here.

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no, I’m not texting my ex wife during quarantine.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it though. Not because I miss her but because it seems like the normal thing to do during a global pandemic. People are dying. Parents, her parents, the people I once considered my own parents, are high risk. I think about them. I think about how they are all handling this. I think about her being out of work and struggling. I wonder if she’s nervous or stressed out. I spent six years of my life with her. For six years we hardly spent more than a few days apart. When the world is in crisis mode you tend to reach out to those who you’re closest to like, holy fucking shit, do you believe this shit?!

We survived the marathon bombings, we survived the Trump election, we survived living in a 31ft motorhome for over a year. We didn’t survive our marriage. Still, you almost forget the catastrophes in life are no longer being survived together. Anger subsides, it’s still there but it’s less a raging fire and more smoking soot. You can’t hold on to those emotions, they will eat you alive, burn you down. When you’re a compassionate person, as much as I am, no amount of anger makes that compassion go away. It lives there, side by side, with every other emotion, like a good friend. Even when it’s not reciprocated, maybe especially so.

It’s not the countless hours at home, the slight wine buzz, the quiet, the rummaging through old pictures, racking your brain for things you used to do for fun or for hobbies that you’ve since neglected and it’s not rediscovering old music you once loved. It’s just that you know maybe for the first time ever, that you are actually not the only person going through this. It’s a fact that the whole world is going through it with you. Not one person is excluded and misery loves company, right?

So I refrain from adding her name to my list of people I should check in with. Mentally it might be there but I’ll never put it in ink. I’ll let it float around, hover. One day, it might be normal to shoot each other a text and say hi, how’s it going? Might even ask about significant others by name and I might even be genuine knowing full well, hers was significant before a piece of paper made it okay. I’m compassionate but I might always be a little bitter too.

Dating after a divorce has proven quite interesting. You learn so much about yourself and others. There are some people who don’t have any clue what it means to have had a marriage and a divorce, they cannot fathom because their longest relationship was a year or two. They think you should be over it by now. They think of it as another “breakup”. I don’t blame them but I also won’t be the one to school them on emotional maturity and life experiences. So I move on. I’m grateful my red flag radar has seriously improved. I can detect egos, narcissism, manipulation, co-dependence, power trips, control issues, low self esteem, jealousy, trust issues, childhood traumas, emotional instability, the list goes on, in just a few weeks time. I’m hoping to get that down even more but I think it’s a major improvement.

The thing proving to take the longest time to heal is the way I feel about relationships/love as a whole. There are things I just can’t see anymore, things in relationships I can’t find, the good in them, the safety in them. I’m afraid to find “my person”. I’ve grown cynical. How will I know if all these walls that have been built are ever fully down? Maybe they won’t be, maybe they shouldn’t be. I used to see love as this destination, this goal, this ball of glowing, shimmering light, placed up high on a pedestal. I was enamored by it, in awe of its beauty, its warmth, and its endlesss, ever-reaching arms of protection. Now, there is caution tape where beams of light used to be. I don’t want to get comfortable, I don’t want to ever get to the place where I think, I will be with this person the rest of my life. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t think beyond this day. Maybe thinking too much about the future makes you overlook what’s happening right now. It leads to words like, this will change, that will get better, it won’t be like this then. It makes you picture a life that isn’t reality. You see what you want, what you hope. Your mind plays tricks on you.

I’m glad I know now what’s right for me and I’m glad I can recognize when someone is toxic and triggering and when I need to walk away. I wonder if I will always view love as a risk to take. Maybe I always have? Maybe the risks appear to outweigh the reward. Love feels different inside me now, It’s not quite at home. It’s like putting on a pair of jeans after you gained a few pounds. They used to feel like a second skin and now they just don’t sit right. Do you loose the weight? Throw out the jeans? Or where them uncomfortably until they hopefully stretch out a bit?

One thing quarantine has been good for is knowing who you really want in your life and what kind of relationship and contact you want with them. When there are no distractions it’s very easy to see how someone affects you. Emotional and even physical reactions that you maybe never noticed before because you never were able to give them the time to live. You were always rushing off to the next client, driving to your friends house, calling your sister, meeting someone for drinks, going to yoga class. But now you can truly sit with a feeling, you have no choice really. It’s the only thing on stage and you are its only audience.

So I won’t be texting my ex wife to say, holy fucking shit, do you believe this shit?! She might not know if I was referring to the global pandemic or our failed marriage or how I no longer trust the one thing we all want in life. To be honest, I’d be referring to it all.

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the devil below is the devil that looks down

if you look over that cliff
a dizzying drop
a long way down
your heart plummets into your stomach
half of you wants to back away
the other half wants to jump


it’s not what’s down there that you want
it’s not what you’ll feel on the way
the power of a free fall
blasting against you
it's the anguish that will erupt from your mistrust
it's the havoc you'll construct from your absense


everything rushing passed 
you can’t grab a hold of it
you can hardly see
the blurry perspective 
unseen advantage
 
did you jump
in between exaggeration and manipulation
an escape from your devouring ego


you’re a flight risk
but you kept that from me
a dumpster fire
you’re good at playing the part
you didn’t believe it yourself


you walked close to the edge
taunting me with near death
all the time


they say if you’re wondering who someone is
wait patiently, they will show you in time


do you believe in happenstance
do you believe in coincidence 


what was it you were trying to show me
if not you’re uglier than your appearance 


what was it you were trying to show me
if not your intentions are tainted black


what was it you were trying to show me
if not your ability to dance around words


what was it you were trying to show me
if not that you’re a victim. always


danger follows you
like an obedient dog
you take it out when it best suits you 
but you never admit to keeping it on a leash


you’re so close to the edge 
a wobbly walk
straddling what grounds you
and what pulls you towards what could only hurt you more


you keep looking down
you keep looking down