the whiskey turned to water.
*disclaimer: this post is part of a 30 day writing challenge; today’s prompt required me to write for 15 minutes, uninterrupted. I cannot and will not accept responsibility for the nonsense which you are about to consume.
Stand down, Little One. Stand down. Stand down. Your whiskey’s turned to water and now the cat’s got to be let out of that godforsaken bag.
Stand down and tell me stories about when it was me and you. Tell me what it was like before things started weighing so very much.
I saw her in my dream the other night; you know the one. She was as cruel and kind as ever and you would have been so proud. I wasn’t scared of her—not this time. I think that means I’m becoming a lady; isn’t’ that what happens when you become a lady? I always wanted to become a lady. But most of the time I wear different jeans and tattered tees. Sometimes red lipstick, but never lady hats. I don’t want to talk about hats. Hats. Cats. Bats. Rats—I have a worry infestation.
There are moments I rise up to my ceiling; when the night finally comes to take me away from this place. Body snatcher. Body keeper. It’s the lighter bits that drift away.
Stand down, Little Lady. Stand down. You have to find yourself again. Something about this moon makes me think the time to stand down has passed. Time to recline; show this heart that ceiling; like when the night comes to carry you away. It’s so scary, I know. But do it anyway. Show your ribcage how to unfold. Show your heart what it means to be lifted; words lifted.
Great words are lifted from the deeper places and I fear you’ll never know secure like I do. You’ll never lie to yourself like I do.
But winter is here and that makes life seem more intimate, don’t you think? I wish my cherry blossom tree could whisper to me though the coldest months “don’t worry, child. I’m coming back. I always come back. ”
For now I’m left with water where there once was whiskey and he’s taken to tea. Tea drinker meets whiskey drinker and they fall in love. Making little twiskey wea babies.
Count down. Count down. What’s the use of this? Count down. Count down.
Keep smiling, you must keep smiling. I can’t carry the weight of the world in my purse, I’ve taken to smaller purses these days.
Boundaries are for keeping. Boundaries are for keeping. But a libra thinks boundaries are for bending. And I am apologetically so. I don’t know what to say to her. Not the one who is far away, but the one who is farther away. The one who I would talk to without any words. When did fixing things become so strange? When did Mercury Retrograde become so cruel? Kiss and make up; both of you. Stop the tug of war with my thoughts. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until they just let go. Maybe I imagined all the tugging and waring. Maybe there was only letting go. Maybe the last letter was the last letter to end all the letters. Maybe it’s my move. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I should be trying harder, but maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Maybe it’s a test from the universe to fight harder. Maybe its a test from the universe to let go. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I miss her and am sick of the universe.
Maybe it’s time check in with your heart, Dear. But maybe I’m tired of a heart being the end all say all of all the things. Bones can be checked. Check in with your spine. Check in with your brain. Check in with your integrity and then tell me the heart is the only one who speaks. She’s not. She’s been quiet. And I’ve let her. I’ve let her have space and quiet and time. By now I think she owes me some sort of sign.
Dear heart, please tell me. What is the meaning of all this?
My whiskey. Still whiskey. But I’m losing cubes by the word. Type the ice to water. Type the whiskey to something much softer. Soft whiskey. Hard whiskey. Laughter—that’s all I hear. Now what I am I supposed to do with that? Keep typing.
Stand down. Let it happen and cry if you must. It won’t be easy, they never said it would be easy. But stand down.
Stand down. Stand down.