i ate a burrito

by epi

i’m dramatic, dammit. that last post, i named it “i’m eating a burrito”, because i was, and i had a billion things to say but thought that no one would care, and then i realized, “you know what? I DON’T CARE.” because I don’t. because I tried to care, what you thought and what you said and what your look suggested and how you felt and then i was just drowning in thoughts and words and unspoken feelings and they started to push mine out.

a stage of grief is anger. i’m not sure what i’m grieving, but i know i’m angry.

my father is in prison, i recently learned, and why am i saying that here? why? because I can. i can. and i have. i have a father and he has a problem and now, well, he has a home. his windows are bars and his doors are bars and his walls are made of concrete, but all of that metal and rock won’t be enough to keep him safe because his demons are inside of him. and mine are too. but i won’t be broken. so i came here to push them out. to show them to the world. a secret held is a person confined. i have secrets, the things i think but never say because i shouldn’t or i can’t or honestly, i need some things to be just mine until one day when someone else can have them and love me anyway. that’s the person i’ll love (lovelove) first. or last, maybe, i should say. but sometimes we have weed-y secrets. they grow and grow and take over all the beauty that we’ve planted and cultivated in ourselves. i am sad, and i don’t know the solution, except to tell secrets. except to stick my finger down my throat and vomit words everywhere. i have to talk. (i talk all the time. i never say anything.)

what does any of this have to do with a burrito? what do headaches and barometric pressure and stomach pains and angry words and tears have to do with keeping me from work some mornings? nothing. and everything. so yes, i ate a burrito. get over it dammit. get over it.