Somedays I wake up covered in the blackest ink. Viscous it clings to my skin, an oil stained second skin, dripping from a bleached bone white ceiling, slicking my hair down upon my tender-headed scalp. Somedays, it takes the effort of Idiyanale, of Oshun, of Jesus to pull me out of the pit of tar, as the substance drains me of breathe and water and light. Somedays, the ink seeps in so deep and fills me to bursting, to breaking, to shaking, and pours out of my eyes and mouth and onto the clean ground.
First things first… Do not take out two sticks of butter from the fridge. Never do that. Butter is the gateway to bad times. Okay. So you took out the … Continue reading What Not To Eat When Depressed and Craving Cinnamon Toast
Sleep — death’s twin sister stole me away at dawn leaving my breathing stale husk