Bonjour Corbeau

I can't even collect my thoughts enough to write them down.

It's like my mind is holding its breath. Breathing for a second, then holding its breath.

When it breathes there are a hundred things it thinks about for less than a hundred seconds.

Then it holds its breath and I stare at a word for three minutes.

Then my heart beats fast and I think about deadlines.

Ultimatums, deadlines, endings, and beginnings.

Important people, important words.

Birthdays.

I can't go back to where I was before.

Can't go back to it.

Is it wrong that I think so much of it?

The things we think we are really over, but aren't.

Reminded by carrots, by cutting fucking carrots.

It's not the thud of the blade hitting the wooden chopping block.

It's the wet, slick sound of metal splitting open flesh.

Carrot flesh, which is just plant cells.

All the same.

Flesh that is flesh that reminds you of your flesh

Really can't go back.

Your mother knows because she told you she knows.

She overreacted about that papercut on her finger, and accusingly asked you if you had any bandaids.

Because she saw the empty ones on your floor.

She would know exactly what those tiny flecks of red are

That cling to the edge of the bathtub.

She would spot the splotches

On the laundry she steals when she tells you she's never doing your laundry again, but does it anyways.

Evidence.

"The second you stop, it moves from the present to the past."

"Just don't do it anymore, and its like it never happened."

Thing is,

It did.

I also like where I am right now.

I like that I am building up myself into a person who does things

Like art, videos, projects, music.

I printed off more than fifty photos of me today.

Fifty photos of a person that people are going to look at in a shoebox twenty years from now and wonder about. Make me seem more beautiful, and profound than I really am.

John would be mad at me right now

if he knew how much Tegan and Sara I was listening to.