It’s not enough to say that I’m trying to be better.
It’s not enough to wait and hope that it’s all for something.
At this point in my life, nothing matters. I feel nothing. I’m staring at the cracked skin of my rugged hands and wondering why I don’t care about the pain. I fantasize about laying the right side of my face on the shelf in oven and dying in the silhouette of Sylvia Plath or shoving rocks into the pockets of my cardigan and walking into a lake like Virginia Wolff. Today I spent the afternoon splurging my life’s saving on new outfits and appliances to make that short hour that I sit in my backyard at the birth of night enjoyable enough to feel something- anything. I bought a small stone fire pit and lined it’s bowl with cheap paper towels and grocery store wood. I like the smell of the blackened wood and the glow of the flames but I only feel cliché. I remember what it felt like to have emotions: like the excitement of a first date or the anxiety of watching a scary movie in a dark room. I remember paranoia, melancholy, and even betrayal, but don’t feel them anymore. The flame’s shadows dance in my hand but I don’t feel them. I don’t feel anything