subject line: i hate this.


in the shadow of our mountain

Here’s the thing; I thought we’d be doing this together.

I thought that it would be you I would call after a meeting that turned my brain into mush and made me feel like a child in my professional life, in comparison to the mighty and powerful and God-sent women I work with.

I thought it would be you who’d listen to me incoherently mumble through words while I sat on the back porch with a tub of Pringles and a jim n’ ginger as I tried to reconstruct my belief in my own ability to be mighty and powerful and God-sent.

I thought it would be you to tell me it would happen, the chaos would soon turn from an unrecognizable blob into shapes, and soon I’d understand, soon I’d get it. There was nothing to worry about. You never worried. You always could make it so I wouldn’t either.

I thought we’d be doing this together, buddy.

I hate that you aren’t here.

I hate that you don’t even have a grave.

Because if you did, I could say all this to a headstone and pretend that you’re listening,
rather than just shooting all my nonsense into outer space and hoping you’re on a star with good reception.