I’ve decided I’m going on a hunger strike until things are how they should be.
I’m in the mood to leave the country, to escape. The best(and worst) of it is that the option exists. I’m furious, I’m sick, I’m tired of this place and these people. I’m in the mood where I miss him, and I shouldn’t.
My body is dried out and I’m a lump of decaying matter. I’m fermenting in a pool of rage. I’m writing poetry again-never a good sign. I have to get out of here but my days are scheduled. My emotions are scheduled, rather, they’re denied.
My mother is high on her prescription drugs, to speedy to stop cleaning and hug me. She’s losing weight and wearing my clothes. She denies it while she scrubs the kitchen counter, again. She describes the sordid details of her failing digestion and I warn her,
“It’s because you’re not eating. Don’t you remember when that happened to me and the doctors said I needed to eat?”
while she sorts sneakers she replies
“Was that when you were bulimic or anorexic?”
It’s our fucked up shop-talk. A house full of people on “healthy diets.”
And they wonder how I ended up this way. Even if Locke was right, he never accounted for my mother.