i like to seperate my thoughts into names, to keep them in order.
my lonliness is named mertha, and she'd like to meet you.
mertha sits by me on my bed and we draw pictures of tulips and snails and wonder when that math test was. she takes my hand and grips it slowly, while singing that song my mother use to sing when i was 4.
(and i wonder exactly how she knew the words.)
mertha walks with me in the rain and understands that i don't like to be asked questions in the morning. sometimes when i'm sitting in the bathtub with no running water she won't leave me alone, and mertha knows that she is unwelcome.
(but she stays because she knows i'll come back to her)
she hangs over my head when i'm getting dressed in the morning. mertha pulls on my flabby skin and reminds me that this little fold just shouldn't be there. i tell her that i just can't get angry anymore over it.
(and this angers mertha)
i feel diseased. i don't let mertha in anymore and sleep with my head pressed against the back of the door. she bangs and yells, and sticks her fingers in through the cracks, and for a moment i almost cry. almost
(then i let her back in)
i tell her that my favorite color is melancholy and my favorite drink is despair. i hold her hand tight as i break in all the mirrors and scrub the bathtub clean of haunted, wrinkled-finger memories. i squeeze her hand so tight, that even i can barely breathe.
(because mertha is me)