i don't want images

right now because i feel like hell like hell like hell like hell.

and with writing i don't even know where to start, i stumbled home drunk yesterday afternoon over the big bridge over the stupid lake, and got over the bridge, and fell under a tree, shade, sky between branches and cried. it's not romantic, my face goes red and i get snotty and gross and i got covered in bark. i dusted myself off and kept calling lachlan until he called me back. i left another drunk stupid message on jule's phone, a ramble about how the way he says his name on the recorded message sounds like a kitten mewing helplessly, how i was walking home, how i felt miserable, how i would pay for him to visit me, the usual. he's used to drunk phone calls, and we both laugh them off. after you've seen someone passed out on a toilet, or yelled at someone furiously in a crowded bar, or had sex, or all three, and still remain on speaking terms.... not that we really are. i haven't spoken to him since the last time i was in brisbane. the last words i said to him were those hollered drunken abuse in a bar, when i rammed my fist into a wall, and curled up in a ball in the corner, behind the space invaders machine, and sobbed hysterically. i'm friends with the barmaid, she comforted me, and a dear dear friend from canberra, who happened to be in brisbane too, held me. he calls me, frequently, his voice breaking on the messages he leaves, but i can't, sober, bring myself to return the calls.

i don't want tags. i don't want identity. i feel that skin crawling desire to depart myself right now. it'll pass, i know it will, i just have to accept it, not fight it, accept it, not fight it... breathe my way through, sleep my way through, bleed it out, because i'll be ok.