O, Lucky Elle

My memory has been failing. Faces and names.

Days,

months.



Fleeting. Fleeing.


Yesterday I heard a man's voice. It's been a woman for a year and I don't recognize him either.
Half a week ago I answered you in a completely different conversation. It scared me.


It's probably the alcohol. I'm probably fine, if I sober up. Fine.


It's sometime around three in the morning. The wind is smashing against me, and my coat and hair flap wildly behind me. I'm muttering to myself loudly. No, I'm screaming. Walking home, stomping home. I laugh. I am near tears and angry. I'm having three sides of a conversation all out loud and I am sure someone in bed, someone warm under their blanket is pulled from the dream and angry also, at the window and I scream and stumble away.

O, lucky Elle.

You don't have it so bad.

No shit.

So what's the fucking problem?

Who knows?





Who cares.


I round the corner of my street and I make the effort to shut my fucking mouth. I'm no man. No adult. No boyfriend, father, artist, employee, son, person. I'm no human.

I'm no human.

I'm below you.


I can feel the anger and sadness inside of me, trench warfare, gutting me, carving away at me.




Half a week ago I answered you in a completely different conversation and I heard a man's voice yesterday.  It's been a woman for a year and I don't recognize either of them. They're ganging up on me.


Who knows, who cares. Fuck it. I'm home. Crash through the door. Asleep, hopefully, but I never really know.



O, lucky Elle.