surviving october - by Valerie - club reticent

You know it’s getting bad again when you start feeling like an island. Inventing new sentences to weave into conversations, I let the sadness dissolve under my tongue to keep it from seeping through. Fear of missing out, the engine oil that keeps most of my intentions running, is now fear of getting up. I wish I had somebody to let down; the only disappointment I can afford is my own. Not numb to any of it — there’s only so much avoidance a lady can swallow — I’ve never been more present. And does it matter if it’s a spiral or a pattern if it all ends up down the same drain? Part of me wishes it would continue to get worse: I’m curious to see what happens if I let the wounds marinate, swapping self-improvement for a good old biblical meltdown, deflating one body part at a time, waiting for little Margaret Qualley to claw her way out of my spine. A poet makes no sound, but at least I’d have excuses for days then. Dear so and so, I’m sorry I can’t do dinner this week. I’m sorry the speed

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