.
it is possible that this weather is just a mean drug. gray, beaming, blotting out trees and roads and signs of changing air and time. hissing, and plain. not like light or canvas, but bleaching and concrete and flat to the eye, with no interesting qualities. unnamable, unworthy.
it is possible that my period is gripping me inside like a chemical pressure, like falling towards the center of the earth below my aching heels, like the kind of sadness that startles. my own reflection in a black swamp. lead blankets and nostalgia of the missing and shallow breath.
and it is possible that the verge of this city grinds my private frailty, where corroding warehouses look like prisons and identical municipal buildings look like prisons and factories pumping thermoglass and serum look like prisons. and lumps of splintered curb pull off the sidewalk and sink dimly to gravelly puddles.
it is possible that moving is like tearing, like the vanishing of memories and love, the vanishing of certainty and association, the vanishing of home. like disappearing, like parting with a wistful or resented or indifferent name. like asking who was i and where am i now and how could it matter? how did it matter? it is gone.
yes. it is possible that i have traveled alone all my life, and lonely, and have wished my own abstraction from anything to believe in. i got myself into this, somehow.
it's just that it is really, especially shitty outside, and i am hormonally and physically unwell, and the city is not the proper place for me, and i moved myself into three spaces today. and one of them is borrowed, and one of them is a padlocked cave, and one of them is bare to the last fine layer of dust and echoes my toes on the floor.
i may be preordained for dislocation.
.
