I have had a hard life. My body is, worn out at 41. I’ve done, a considerable amount until this time. Winning bar fights that were never captured or dispelled in the northwest and southeast. Wearing my winnings with a sense of pride and shame atop a hundred pounds of gas station ice. Throwing a few cubes from my bath into my glass of whisky. Who cares? I have blood and, teeth marks? Really? Are we animals? Was he that scared he tried to chew through me?
I’m old. I earned all these ailments. I earned the things old men do. Build models. Stare out the window until their coffee sours. Forget what day it is—. Forget a birthday. Mine? I’m fine. Yours? The world is ending. I see. Let me try to coax some sympathy towards you which pill is that? The pink ones? The chalky tasting ones? These shiny ones only for emergencies. She makes my body shake because she’s a manipulative twit.
So. I let her go. I need a quiet life. I have worked hard enough to be left alone to my own choices. So. If she could only care about her and I’ll do the same. I care about me. I have to, there’s no one else that does. Obviously. It’s not about those moments where I put my body through, things to put food on the table. It’s about finally, caring enough about me and my feelings and weighing the facts about healthy relationships.