Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
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The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017

Saturday, Nov. 03, 2007 @ 8:42 pm

He's gone.

I don't know what to do.

I sit on the floor tearing the Monday Magazine into small pieces. My hands grey with newsprint. I rock, comforting myself, like an autistic child.

I try to slow down my heart, my racing anxious heart. I slow it down, and then I try to stop it. I try to stop the pounding swollen heart in my chest. It won't slow down. I open my chest up, and imagine my soul shooting outwards. I call on someone to take me, out of my body, out of here. I'm ready to go.

He put on his jacket, his wool socks. I heard the door shut, and my body convulsed. I waited. The truck turning over, starting up. I let go. I let out everything inside of me, gasping,

I'm cold and hot and alone. I want to leave too, but there's nowhere to go.

It's my fault. My stubborness, my closed head. Nobody's allowed in. I'm so determined, so sure that I'm right.

I don't know whether I'm supposed to call him or leave him alone. I don't want to go outside. I don't want to pretend that I want to go out with him. At least not out among others.

I want to be alone, but I don't want to be alone. I'm not capable of loving. Truly loving. I cannot create the sort of relationship that I need. I always ruin things. Ruins. I want to destroy this apartment, because it is us. It has to be in ruins, like us.

He has failed to love me when I need to be loved the most.

This is one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

Roots | Shoots