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This time last year

I still can’t think about this time last year, block it out, keep it out, change the subject- the weather, the time of day anything’s better. I have become interested in the love lives of others, I love them, their children, their weddings, but it makes it hard to come home to nothing, no reason to do the job that I hate, no reason not to stay out late or never go home at all. Applying for jobs somewhere else, anywhere, at least then there’s an excuse, a career to make up for the emptiness give it some meaning. If I die while away then at least they can say it was doing what I loved. If I die on the job that’s easier for family than if I die on the commute in a badly stage managed suicide.
I still can’t think about this time last year, I’ll never trust my brain again. She lied to me hard. She tells me to pick at my skin, to drink endlessly, she tells me to jump, to be nothing but negative. She lied for five years about a man I should never have trusted who I wish I’d never met who I gave up so much for who I loved with such a fierce intensity and overwhelming sincerity that I know I cannot do so again. She now pleads to be ended, I’m not sure I blame her, she’s a waster, a fuckup, a scared little girl just trying to impress but it’s the end of the road turns out being clever can only get you so far and that people prefer hardworking, pleasant and positive. People prefer reliable, conscientious and consistent.  
I still can’t think about this time last year, can’t listen to the songs we did can’t bear to hear the notes again I can’t play piano or think about jazz I can’t talk to a friend or a relative about how it’s all going because the answer is ‘the worst it has ever been’. The answer is ‘I have ruined my life and my career’. The answer is ‘I have wanted to die every day since September’. The answer is ‘I do not know how or if this is going to get better’. And there are no platitudes in the face of such certainty. I frequently find myself too dark for company, accidentally revealing too much and too sad. No one knows how to react at a party when you say you want to die. You’re sort of joking but it’s only because you think about that which is unthinkable to most people more frequently than you can even admit to yourself.

More of a spoken word piece than a poem.

11 Feb 19

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