happiness and hysterectomies: vodka as emotional lube

Seeing into the future:
A little over 2 weeks from now.
Alone.
In bed.
New wounds and old body parts gone daddy, gone.
You really do make your own bed and get forced to lie in it.
It's karma. The game of Happiness in which someone has to lose.
I'm so sick of losing that everything looks shiny and metal and sharp and inviting.
(But i'm no longer the dumb as a bag of nails cliche' that everyone is used to me being)
Maps and keys and bus fare and air fare and the huge heavy thing that transports t-bone on planes that sits in the reptile room; ready and waiting.
I can't go.

Though:
This is the part of the heartache where I leave town.
This is the part of the heartache where I make everything hurt so that i control something.
(anything)

My heart is my new binder; or it was my old one but I forgot about it during the Great Hormone Swap.

My heart is the lazy, lonely hunter that would give even Carson McCullers writer's block.

I was a good person once.
I was a good person okay maybe twice.

I just wait for:

footsteps
text message sounds
drugs to kick in
sleep

Don't get me wrong.
there are good things.
amazing things.

But i'm still Plan B.
sitting in a bed covered with photo albums- i have nothing left at all.