Over the past few months, after months of contemplation, I decided five years was plenty.
Though, I think it was more than six—6 years, since my first rendezvous with Paxil, Celexa, Metoprolol, and the like. Those days, I needed control…
Insert Grad School
A Glorified Hobby
My Masterpiece
Nonetheless, I gradually discovered,
This world sucks when it’s always grey…
Mother-Fucking-Grey
Painting my nails black was a fanciful control over my mood,
Without contemplation.
The control hypocritical.
As if i had something left to lose
There was nothing left to mourn
*
Today, they’re naked
No top coat
No buffers
Only cracked, keratin cells
Unquenched
Uncertain
*
Today
I’ve been off of my 200mg off Zoloft for 8 weeks.
Off the Buspar for 10
*
I took my last 1/2, .5mg Xanax, on a Bumble, first date,
A week back—inconsequential;
A Sunday, at a coffee shop, with an atheist
I couldn’t reconcile
Haven’t reconciled
With my life.
*
I feel so different, today….
*
I started writing this post 8 weeks ago,
Updating, at times thinking
nearly done
*
Sure, it’s still fairly grey
Of course, I’m still fucked up
*
But it’s me, fucked up
*
Smiling, fucked up
Altered, enough
Content, fucked up.
*
Today, Trump is still… mother-fucking…
President.
And I intend,
On giving myself a pedicure.
