Moldy Water

It’s stormy out, so my day has been slow. It’s always harder to do things when it’s gray. It’s 8pm and I’ve smoked weed all day and nothing else.

My kitchen sink has been broken for weeks and the black, moldy water sitting in it reeks. I’ve thought about calling the plumber, but I feel like there might not be anything to be done. The calling part, at least, seems too difficult.

I take anti-psychotics for the feelings that get too big inside of me, but I stopped those a few weeks ago. Then my sink clogged up.

I don’t feel any different, but I have noticed lines of sadness running around my hands and feet, lining my every move.

Every time I think of happiness, I think of what I figured out in 3rd grade, but then I think of my mother’s disappointment, my father’s sorrow, and I figure it’s better to be alone than gay or married to a man.

My dinner tonight is leftover lunch. I made a steak and forgot to put away what I didn’t eat. I’ll eat it for dinner without heating it up. I’m tired of heating things up. I just want everything to be mellow, less intense, less sexual.

The weekend before last I made acquaintances who all found me attractive, and I haven’t stopped fucking since. The fucking is wearing me thin, my sexual desires have been depleted. There is nothing that could be done to make me feel like I’m sexy now. I’m a cardboard box with arms and legs. The acquaintances I made won’t stop calling me back — they are all male.

My morning shower felt cold and empty, and I‘ve all but lost my sparkle. There isn’t any reason for me to feel this, but I felt it all the same. Just a twinge of sadness on the corner of my shampoo bottle, the tip of my razor, the hem of my yellow dress.

If you believe in ghosts, you would call it a ghost. I call it a memory. The memory of my sadness, but not completely my sadness. I hope you understand.

Outside of my window is a beautiful summer day. The grass is green, there are birds at the hummingbird feeder, the road outside is quiet, but the twinge of sadness is still there.

My sadness might be a symbol of my hunger, but when I ate I was not satisfied.

My sadness might be a symbol of my exhaustion, but when I slept I was not satisfied.

Only in the Lord will I find salvation.

I furrow my brows at the thought and curse my religious upbringing for sneaking in now that I’m low.

My kitchen is messy, dirty dishes surround the clogged sink. I haven’t been able to wash anything in weeks. The stench emanating from the kitchen made nauseous at first, and now it’s making me weak. I haven’t cleaned my apartment in weeks.

The kitchen counters are mostly covered with dishes, but bills are piled around too. In the corner, is a bottle of Nyquil. I lunge for it. The bottle is half gone, and it’s easy to take care of the rest. Sleep tastes like grape. The sun shining through the open window hits my face at a slant.

I lay on the couch for hours until the Nyquil wears off. I wake up on the floor. My blankets are twisted around me and the stench of the kitchen hits me worse than before. It smells like rotten eggs in soil, sweet like candy, too sweet like death.

A wave of nausea hits me and I lay back down, cradling my stomach.

The urge to vomit winds its way up into my throat and I run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I’m throwing up bile. My bathroom is clean except for the patches of vomit and spit that showcase my failures to make it into the toilet. The last couple of days I’ve been too sick to clean up.

My shaky legs take me back to the living room, and I get back into my position on the couch. I doze off.

I rest blissfully for what feels like 3 seconds before there is a loud knock of my front door. I lie still, afraid, cautious. The knock grows louder and more urgent, and I force my body to sit up. My bones struggle to support me. I open the door.

In front of me, standing alert, is a cop. She’s short, with a slicked back bun, her face looks like she’s ready to give great customer service. I’m happy to see her.

“Hello M’am! This is a well fair check.”

The woman is cheerful, but her eyes look me up and down. I’m sure I look disgusting.

“Ok, I’m fine.”

“Your neighbors are still complaining about the smell coming from your door. It smells like a decomposing body…if I have to come back again I’ll bring a warrant to search your place.”

I glare accusingly at every single one of my neighbor’s doors. The cop waits while I do this before adding.

“And based on the state of you, I think that it would be best if you came with me.”

I disagree with her, and she doesn’t protest as I slam the door in her face. She didn’t protest yesterday either. I make my way back to the couch and lay down, close my eyes.

I wonder what she’ll think of my place when she comes over tomorrow. I smile slightly as I think about her exploring my apartment, looking in my room, my drawers.

I slide my hand down my pants as I imagine her face when she sees my strap-on collection. Her perky bun pointing down at the floor as she lifts her head up to take it all in.

Tomorrow — I think, rubbing myself slowly. She’ll see me Tomorrow.