The hands of the clock wave at me like I should know what time it is already.
Their movements are empty, or maybe it’s because they are accustomed to holding those flags that are lights, the ones that guide aircraft to land on the mothership.
But it’s way past my time for bed, and instead of guiding me in, they are shouting gently that if I don’t sleep enough I might crash into the ocean of worried nonsense.
I’ve been in that storm for 18 years now, pailing water out of the captains helm, anchor weighed in this little bay before the reef hits up against the sand bar.
I’d swim if I wasn’t terrified of jellyfish kissing up against me.
I’ve survived on a steady diet of psychotherapy and intermittent self-sabotage.
The radio doesn’t work, and the MP3 player I brought along, only has this ridiculous Aretha Franklin album about shitty ex boyfriends.
Maybe nobody needs me in their life but the jellyfish.
With their incandescent globules guiding me into the water.
I’m going to get stung probably, but at least I’d be less stinky.
I might even make it to shore, and the food I can smell from there is better than the punishment I dish out to myself.
Maybe it has fresh bbq pork, and mangoes, and self-loathing.
I could make a canoe out of the bed frame where it all went wrong.
It might be better than avoiding going to sleep, and hearing her name call out over and over in my head.
I hate fishing now, my next lover is going to be a turtle.
Sturdy, well protected, great swimmer, cute but lacking in finer dexterity.
Unable to hold the flags that might signal what they expect of me.
I’m a decent sailor, I just lost my first mate to the karma.
And I lost my hope to the storm, each bucketful of water I empty, is a mouthful of self-help to swallow.
Trauma is like that.
I think I’m tired enough to shut my eyes now.