I’m spiraling. I cannot think straight, only about how cozy a coffin would be this time of year. Or how inviting it sounds to drink some warming booze and follow it with a handful of pills so I could finally sleep and sleep and sleep. I am not home anywhere. I feel alone. I feel scared, and I feel like this will never end. There is a small voice that comes from inside me that tells me I am wrong and that this will end. But then again, I know it will come again. And I don’t want to be there when it does.
I wonder if death is warm. Because if it is just more icicles and chattering teeth, maybe I should forget about it and take a flight to Arizona where my mother can coddle me and lay me out in the sun for days on end. Or maybe I could tell them all the things I think and convince them that yes, I am being abused (even if it is a lie), by something I cannot escape. And They will take me to a place where I have daily visitors and everyone speaks so softly that there is still room for thoughts, but only ones of the ocean and playing card games. Admitting defeat and never attempting to fight that fight again.
And if it is warm, it makes my decision much easier. If it feels like my bed felt last Wednesday, when the windows were frozen shut but my toes were red with pulsing blood, then. Then. Then, I still cannot know what lies past it. But whatever I hope it to be, I hope it to be warm.