No, it doesn’t matter that I’m chasing vodka with wine. It doesn’t matter that I’m swallowing it, no, gulping it, down so that there’s none left tomorrow; so that I can end this nonsense. No, it doesn’t matter.
That she still watches my Instagram story, though she left me for another, makes me sick. Honestly the fact that I’m still checking to see if she watches maybe is what makes me sick. Or is it the vodka? I can barely even spell now. Take another shot. Get rid of that shit before the morning. Write drunk, edit sober, they say.
Bahaha, she said. He said, actually. It was a gift, a print of Hemingway, on a double-sided dictionary page. I turned it around and kept it. Put a postcard from my trip to LA centered in the frame. To quote Gene in Willy Wonka, “Strike that, reverse it.” And also add some shit, it’s artsy. Hide it behind an empty bottle supporting a dried flower. How hip.
Why? Fuck if I know... typing on some weird little digital square; illuminated, touch sensitive, bizarre as all god damn hell. Send it out into the universe and it’ll be. Ugh, I fucking hate you.
Do I share for her to view? Elle am fucking aye oh, why’d I even ask? I know. I know what I’m doing. I know you watch and read, and why, for the fucking love of anything, do I care? Not that I care enough to creep, like you. Just knowing you creep is enough. Ew. Ew, good fucking grief, I hate that I’d never hate you. It doesn’t matter, it never did.
I’m sick; it’s probably the vodka. Why oh why do I drink? Why do I write? Why do I edit? Will I edit, sober? I’ll burn that print, perhaps. I should. I want to now. Will I want to sober? Take another shot. Kill the bottle, for tomorrow—learn to spell. Block you. Move on.
But I tried it. It’s pathetic. It is. This is my goodbye, and that’s pathetic. I thought it was last year, eating edible cookie dough at the mall, walking. No. I thought it was after March, after the final foray of 2018... No. Is it even now? What is even, even? 2020? How far? How come?
It doesn’t matter; it’s for me. It’s the three shots left in the bottle, the tear dripping down my face, more because it’s cold, not at all because I’m sad... It’s the vodka, and the fucked up quilt I can’t seem to finish, and the scarf I’m trying to knit, and the whole pot of bullshit I can’t humor... It doesn’t matter.
It’s the end no one saw coming because the beginning never existed, never was public, never came out, never... How come? No, it doesn’t matter. Thanks, and no. No, no, no. You know better. And I know, I know better.
You watch and read and know. So don’t; be better. For them, and me, and mostly yourself. We know you can do better. From this glowing digital square, do better. I’ll always love you and never hate you. It doesn’t matter. Thank you for being my muse, let’s end this nonsense. Be better, and know, no, it doesn’t matter.
It’s my responsibility, not yours. Forget I asked, and loved and cared and on and on. Editing sober still feels sick, and no, I don’t even hate you for that. It’s all just questions anyway, always.
It’s always just a note, plucked on a guitar, hidden in some app on a glowing square coated in glass. It’s nonsense, really, that all my best content is addressed to you, and always questioned, like the book it all started in... Will, would, could you forgive me? I hope not. Not now. Not even, not ever, never.
I’m never good with endings. Finishing bottles, burning prints, carrying on. No, I know I’m not. But I cannot question any longer. I will not. What the fuck is wrong with me? But I’m sure I’ll still write to you, even though I hope not. Put a dried flower in this and place it in front of what used to be, repurposed. Start saying yes again; it’s all just nonsense. And no, it doesn’t matter.
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