home, in two weeks time
08 September 2004
10:53 p.m.
Today, I hurt.
Today, I hurt like I did last summer when my skin felt too tight to hold the hollowness.
I felt as an empty rain bucket catching its very first drops. Metallic and low.
I knew opening would be like this, though: violent and intense like the birth of a child through narrow hips.
I passed a year without depth--without risk. Safe. I won't go back. I can't go back.
So, here I am hurt, by myself, alone.
Mostly, I've chosen the wrong path again. I'm that kid with perfect marks in school without the ability to survive on the streets. I'm that girl who sat at parties, in a corner, and learned to live inside a book. I'm that old dog that doesn't learn new tricks, even (especially) after being kicked.
And my father's dying. Sooner than later: I know you were planning to come home mid-October, but I don't think he's going to make it that long.
He's been moved to the intensive care unit of a hospital. The doctor complains because my father rips from his throat the machine that helps him breathe.