Someone is talking to me – say something witty, say something Tara-esque, say SOMETHING.
Listen. It’s what I do best. Be present at work, be in the now, and know the stupid fucking buzzwords that mean nothing. Am I sucking in my gut? Am I saying or writing something the grammar police would commend me for? Doubtful.
Say I’m not going to break again.
I won’t break again. I take tenuous steps to start my day and attempt to stick the landing, but I wobble through the day trying to stay on some socially acceptable balance beam.
Eight fucking months clean.
There is a feathery thought which beckons, its caress tantalizing, the almost imperceptible whispers take flight on a breeze; a promise of release that enthralls me.
Just a little graze of the skin…
The first spring thunderstorm is beautiful. It soothes. It brings promise and possibility. It terrifies Cash.
Manic. Breathe. Go. To. Fucking. Sleep.