punches

i have a good swing but a bad land. i never protect my knuckles right. i don't know the right way to stand. i won't drink raw eggs but i feel very rocky these nights lifting weights and listening to my ipod in the angriest/most-triumphant way.

i mean he's right. i mean i am a bitch. i mean i do get angry every time i walk into the living room and hear the tv and see the lethargy and the dirty dishes and the dirty towels and the dirty past and the ways he doesn't even care if any of this/us/it succeeds.

so i quarentine myself to the back corner of the house. spend hours in my bedroom reading, drawing maps of where i have been, look for a light. i answer calls, i write letters, i close my eyes and visualize white light and pink sheilds and let my head feel heavy on the floor. i exercise, i fantasize, i hypothesize. its all very 2003 post-accident for me. waiting for the fog to lift. waiting for the horn to sound. the one that starts things.

because really i am not a bitch. really i am not rocky. really i am ready for the me i will be when i can finally put to rest all of this.