Maybe you’ll like me better in writing. Maybe this time you won’t notice that the once fit and friendly girl has grown into an aged rotund version of her former self. I hate it that I have let myself go. I hate it that I am single now, alone. Maybe this time I’ll make better decisions. Maybe this time I’ll hide my heart away, swaddled in cashmere and soft cotton. I feel as though I am being slowly swallowed by a snake. The poison has been swirling in my blood in the back of my brain, swelling the once useful frontal lobe. Well, maybe not the frontal because then I would feel nothing. I could look past you. I would say anything and maybe this time you would just take it. I have the master and he says to me, “You are not your thoughts, you are the awareness behind them.” I say yes, but oh to be behind them, with my back turned to them. Feeling no nuisance of their presence, leaning forward to the press. I am not my thoughts.
Maybe this time you’ll like me better in writing. I pray that this time you will see me standing here. I am no longer invisible, the girl who swallowed fire, or the girl with the scarlet tattoo. I hate myself when I replace joy with a sugar rush. I know it, I’m smart they say. I smart girl evolved into a scarred, scurrilous, case harden. You don’t know how I feel. You don’t know how I feel. I am not my thoughts.
Maybe this time you’ll like me better in writing. This time I will open the door when you know, this time I will look first, and I will see you, not my own insecurities. The spirit of rejection replaced by the fruits of the spirit. Flowing freely within, smooth, coating the inside of my veins with the warmth of times gone good. The buzz of the sugar boiled behind my thoughts. This time I will stand behind the hate and wash it in love. Just show me how, how to clear the bad thoughts. The I hate myself, the I hate my thighs, I hate my bank account, I hate my life!! Editorial, no … obituary. Women thirty-nine years of age to be funeralized today. She left behind her husband and three children. Sunny was proceeded in death by her mother, her stepfather, and her sister. Sunny was full of life and made this city her home. Sunny loved a good time and hated anyone who didn’t … was suspicious of anyone who didn’t. That’s how Chris Rose’s quote went, I think. I think, I think, I think, I think, I think, I think. I am not my thoughts.
I call her Sunny because her picture was so beautiful and happy, her obit so joyous and life so full and yet one day in the near past Sunny driving back to the East, pulled her car over and jumped … Sunny’s body was discovered floating in the river. Sunny’s picture was so beautiful and happy, her obit so joyous and her life was so full, she had so many friends. Yet none of this kept Sunny on the right side of the bridge, the business end of the world. Maybe this time you’ll understand me in writing. You don’t know how she felt, you don’t know how I feel, fell, forget it. Maybe this time you’ll understand me better. How could you “feel better,” after losing your mother, stepfather, and sister? Feel better, I think, I think, I think. You don’t know how I feel.
I am not my thoughts.
Like a master chips away at his chosen stone to reveal his much-loved masterpiece. Maybe Katrina (the Hurricane) took more than her books, more than he confirmation gown, her rollerblades, her family photo album. Maybe this time you’ll see the chips as they fall away from me, drowning, trying to swim, feeling all of the hurts, and they do hurt. They do hurt, they do hurt. “Scientist discover that suffering severe pain, makes you more susceptible to feeling pain.” I could have told them that twenty-seven years ago. Maybe this time you’ll understand me in writing. I think, I think, I think, I think that I am not my thoughts. I choose my emotions.