“The yard woman”

** cat food is approx $21/ month

My shrinking belly was almost gone; I would lose the excess quickly, with the new order of pre workout I was expecting to arrive—then, I could lay off of the MCT oils; within my limited budget, my diet still consisted of too many carbs, and I had become dependent on eating grains and high sugar to supplement with my protein. It had been a rough month, and even sort of a rough year—I wasn't sure yet what to call whatever I was in the process of, but I was in the process of something. I was becoming apathetic, but not yet stagnant— never m complacent and in the very least, not comfortable, which kept calm a sense of guilt which burned within, speaking of how no matter what, I must not deserve it—it being, a happy and fufling, love-filled life. Surely I was some sort of monster who deserved to be punished. The solitude was hardly that in New York City—surrounded play people in very corner and crevice, I never felt alone. At least I was guided by falls and doors which kept out the actual presence of others. I thought I might die having to actually be around someone I didn't like—and I realized, by now, that I really didn't like anyone—maybe not even myself, who I loved dearly, but mostly couldn't beat the thought of.

Cream cheese

Honey

Voters

Coconut shreds

Dried fruit

I work out.

Like, a lot.

So why do I feel so bad about everything I eat?

I keep my cash and cards in a coffee can.

I collect dust and random antiques.

I just wrote a film but it has no score—

Just the words to a song,

As time moves on

I just dry up.

Stock the pantry with collectibles;

The cat was coming, but nowhere as of yet to be found.

I had everything for him—assuming that it would be a he, and somehow I knew it would be, my companion, just a flutter of happiness with the thoughts of his arrival and presence, however—the calculation that it would take approximately $30 a month to feed him kept me in waiting, calculating that it would be better to first finish what I had started before welcoming anymore sources of dependency, which included my own blood. I was still struggling to find balance in my own torture, the grueling process of becoming a ‘wantable woman' of substance and culture, collecting books and of course, constructing a world in which I could both live and love—in peace, and with what work I had so far done, it had become incomprehensible how much further I would have to move in order to be in the next bracket up—still, how far I had come, with some sort of pride of it all, and yet, humble— down to nothing but coins and crumbs in a figurative sense, which felt more comfortable than any low sum at all. My value was intangible—now began the process of making it all somehow add up. I swallowed my heart with the thought of l a war waging upon those of us who had wandered from other worlds into where I now resided—wherever that was, far from anything I had known before. Such simple luxuries as a couch and a kitchen table had enabled me to double my productivity level to what had at first been beyond even my own imagination— it had seemed all at once to be somehow, some way—under control.

Somehow, someway.

I wondered if the Cheerios and milk I had ordered would allow me to feel somehow more human than I had; if the peanut butter and jelly would allow me to sit for long periods of time chipping away at my projects without the accompanying shame from the intrusive thoughts which sometimes haunted my world—though I had increased my cardio tenfold, I still struggled with the volume of my thighs and leg muscles, and though …

‘Okay, I work out a lot…'

I drifted, unable yet to dress myself— I wondered if I would be attacked at the gym again; it seemed as though last time I had visited the gym during daylight hours, a mob of slow moving, coughing, horribly smelling robot people had descended upon me just to ruin my mood and frame of mind. I had powered through it, but had sense felt impeded, then rearranging my schedule to work out in the middle of the night, and unable to rest knowing that another project had been delayed for months without any steady progression, had extended my working into the daylight hours. Something about the experience had almost traumatized me into a state of paralysis— I didn't mind certain people altogether, however, in large numbers I began to feel suffocated and trapped. I wondered it perhaps I had been attacked politically, having been under isolation and moving below the radar, mostly off the grid. My mind had been somehow altered—and I knew that I was being played with, but not in any way which seemed to be benefiting me… I could not relax for anything, and continued to drift in a faded haze.

I wonder what kind of mistake I made.

Could I be bought and sold again by rich and powerful and famous men at will?

Was there any sense in trying?

Will I ever be whole or loved again?

Will I ever be worth as much to men

As the idea of love is

To any of us

Would I consider to be moved

Into my womb,

A woman

Would I become someone as worth it

To hold, as she was born as

Move.

Here come the demons dressed as robots

To serve the darks ones

The omens come as closing doors

And words against my wonder

The omens come as closer racists

Reptiles and borders

The omens come as novels, rarely

Often more in word forms

I lost an army of one to belong to

I stopped the stroke of the genius's tongue

I could belong to a murderer, monster

And yet i'm a martyr for motions uncalled for

Sermons, sermons

Salvage the rest of it

Word form, will you

Williams and Thomases,

Roberts and Johns,

Marks and David's, groups of them

I put them all on the mothers for service

I put them all up on crosses for curses

Nonesuch as Martyrs

But murderers, cursers—

Nonsuch as martyrs,

But cursers and monsters

INT.

TIA AND TAMERA are bringing their families to LISA and REY's for a holiday weekend—however, after a falling out between the sisters, they have not spoken to one another, and have been invited home unbeknownst the other is coming.

Okay, let's see I've had…

The news is a relief

The chair shoudl slip

from under me

And I could fall

Like I fall

In love with you

After all

Is it too late to get the ice cream?

Maybe.

(Seems like a bad idea at first…)

Getting anything with Jimmy Fallon's face on it is a bad idea.

Seems like a good flavor.

Unless they have half baked In non-dairy

Seems like a flex.

I don't know what's actually wrong with me.

—Or anyone else, for that matter.

For the record, it was Patrick in the noose,

But it was as still disturbing to think of it

As any friend's fate,

At the hand of death

By their own doing

‘'

‘Minimum weight—

Minimum weight…'

I could counter the cheerios and peanut butter jelly on rye bread with more intense cardio than even I had been administering, but surely the lack of so much MCT oil would make a difference—certainly the fiber pills were working—something seeking like a nasty stomach bug actually put me at ease that through most the day much of what I'd had was liquid, or some combination of a liquid-solid. Three blended bananas split between two protein meal replacement shakes and water; now, a hearty salad, complete with pinto beans and couscous, and the mushroom broth soup I had decided that, of all the soups so far, was certainly my favorite.

I had burned almost 800 calories within my hour on the cycle—around 130 on the treadmill, and, without being able to count what I had burned during lifting, probably guessed they my short workout had totaled at about 1000 calories, in addition to the at minimum 1500 or so my body would burn just on its own doing nothing much— and without much else to add to it besides my protein shakes, coffee, the MCT oil and a couple of frozen bananas, I assumed that even with the soup and salad I was still within a safe enough calorie deficit so that I could focus, and would not shatter under the weight of eating like a normal person, or be prone to such tears that came with the bludgeoning thoughts of loneliness and not being “worthy” or “chosen”.

Shut up—

No laughing.

I never sold my soul.

Why am I being terrorized?

Because you didn't sell your soul.

I'd rather die

Than spend my life with you

Or people like you

I'd rather die tonight

Than write to fight you off

I don't want your love

Never before

Have I wanted

Anymore

Than to be forgotten

To fast forward

To a world

Where

…

{Enter The Multiverse}

[Festival Project.™]

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