brought to you by the letter C

Yesterday I said words I didn't want to say and when I woke up my mouth was covered in blisters.

I think it's either this or that. And this is not okay and that is not okay so why do you care if it's this or that. Rewinding the film and looking to see when it turned. When I should have put my hand out. My hands are out now but they are empty as cages should be. It is the strangest mourning.

Then I spent hours reading old stories and thinking about how I used to be and what that was like. How I met gods and stammered before them and what have I done with any promise I ever showed except break it. I'm very good at very little other than saying what's wrong, which I say loudly and often and my face is made of lemons.

Last night, I cooked chicken and carrot curry, chopping the onion while listening to the Cure (briefly considered Counting Crows, which also makes me cry), and served it over cous-cous, with a little chutney on the side.

Sometimes I'll do anything to make myself laugh. I mean really what else is there.