I stabbed myself today with a steak knife, fresh from its years old packaging. Not on purpose, but the blood spilled out so warm, so fast. It took ages to coagulate and I felt light headed and giddy for a time after. My friend helped bandage me and clean up the mess, but I think my ease and happiness from seeing the dark red droplets beneath me made her feel strange. I didn't mean it be a cause for concern. I had just never seen so much blood spill so quickly from anybody before, except for the time I saw a man on a bike hit by a car. I knew he would be okay, so I allowed myself to stare as people gathers and blood ran into the gutter. Then we drove off.
My friend left and now I am taking a bath, a cold one at that. Coffee spilt on my journal in progress. Today is a day of sad liquids.
I myself, am sad. I am in a state of perpetual sadness. I see darkness everywhere. Off days don't hit as hard as they use to- there is nothing left to hit. I hide behind a clever wit, which I spend hours trying to cultivate, perhaps in vain. I seem carefree and unthinking, I suppose. But I am not, I am breaking under the strain of this domesticated life. Of this unfair balance between human and slave, this tilted existence that is being a woman, a wife, a mother.
Can you show me to the door? Which way is out? How do I leave?
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