Rotting Food and Eggshells and Me

There are times when I think my body might not be worth saving. There are moments when I am so stagnant that I feel I may as well be asleep in the compost bin. Rotting food and eggshells.

And me.

The fear of loneliness feeds isolation. Sounds deep, but it isn’t–it’s real dumb. I’m afraid of being alone, so I am often alone. Real logical stuff here.

I figure I am only real when I’m in someone else’s company. If I am not speaking, emoting, writing–communicating in some way–I don’t exist. So the longer I’m alone, the less real I am. The closer I am to the eggshells.

Watching every episode of the 90’s version of Sabrina the Teenage Witch while I stress-chew entire packs of gum doesn’t feel like I’m doing the world any favors. Though I am now well versed in the subtle art of campy sitcoms, I can say little else for the time I spent with a young Melissa Joan Hart.

As compost, at least I’d be giving something back. But here I am, a human woman, folding shirts and trying not to fall asleep too early–making sure I don’t wake up with too much of the day beside me.

Instead of asking for help, or telling the people I love that I’m lonely, I come to you, dear reader. I talk to you–write you love letters. Here, I can communicate while I am alone; I can be afraid and still exist. So, thanks. Thanks for reading, even if there’s only one of you. 

Even if there are none of you, at least I’m here. Less of an eggshell, more of an egg-well she’s trying. Oof. If you made it this far just to read that, I’m actually really sorry.

I love you dear reader. Here’s a poem if you want it. To borrow or keep. It’s rather odd.

 

Whistle 

 

No, sir

I do not drink water, I

Cover my mouth with the hair

From my head and do not speak

To anyone.

Unless they are very kind

And gentle with doorknobs and

Don’t put the kettle on

Until I’m gone.