Let me tell you a little about myself

Chapter 2

Chapter 2


The music blares around me so loud that I can feel my heart racing to match the beat. I smell like smoke and salt, and I can see the sweat of my glass pooling on the bar. I love it when it's empty in here. It's the benifit of distraction without having to socialize.

I listen absentmindedly for the telltale squeek of the door behind me, announcing unwelcome customers. But my mind is mostly focused on the cheap pen in my hand and the yellow, booze stained paper pad in front of me.

My life.

My journey chartered and recorded on paper that reeks of cigars and vodka, of ashes and brandy.

I am a true artist.

I think.

I believe for a minute that I can hear my husbands voice in my head, telling me that it won't help fix me to simply gloss over the bad parts of my life with glitter and sell it as abstract. The therapy is in the dirt, the grit and grime of my gilded existance. He chides the words and embraces the emotions. I do the opposite.

I love the words and feel nothing or my feelings.

But maybe the wounds are the cure.

The filthy reality of me is just that. Filthy. I have tried to hide the dirt and blood under my nails for too long, but now am putting my claw to good use. Digging in myself to find my truth that has been long buried, even deeper than the treasures. I need to become my own archeologist, discovering and naming my skeletons.

I am a piece of work.

Maybe a work of art.

I want to believe that the wings of my words will carry this weight off of my shoulders, so that I can bury this burden and pull myself out of the dirt and into the sky. Maybe my husband is right and the art is just a mask. But it doesn't feel like it. My words feel as real to me as my flesh and bones. But words are just words. The truth is a feeling.

Nothing I write is a lie.

No matter what I say.