the chicken nuggets and the wine? they’re a dinner for heartbreak. and i’m sorry i’ve been mean. i’m just hurt.
i feel so delicate in the evenings. like a flower with a few petals gone to the wind.
it’s beautiful, really. romantic, even. i roam around my apartment in my underwear, writing and fussing with this and that. i have some wine, smoke an occasional cigarette. read old journals and bits and pieces of books by authors i admire. i text or make calls sometimes. i keep the lights real low and play quiet music. and the big lake, she’s out my window now. it’s perfect.
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i have therapy this morning and i’ve got some new things to share. i wait all week to talk to my therapist. i enjoy my sessions with her so much that i’ve considered joining group therapy as well – a rendezvous, if you will, for people who feel how i feel. i haven’t looked for a local meeting, but think if there isn’t one already, then maybe i’m the person to make it happen.
in my mind it’s mostly good-looking millennials who don’t know what to do with their hands. people who hurt in similar ways. we will meet somewhere kinda depressing and sit on metal chairs in a circle and there will be decaf coffee and milk and cookies. we will pass around a stone and when you have the stone, it’s your turn to talk and everyone listens intently. there’s a box of tissues for the criers. there’s no alcohol but if you bring a small flask no one will say anything. each person has a different story, of course. everyone is interesting. everyone’s suffering is equal. it’s free and it’s incredibly healing. it’s just like on tv.
i’ll put an ad out that says “group for the broken hearted – bring your best.”
Words 