Am I supposed to act like this isn't murdering me? Suffocating me?

With every step down that staircase I felt my life slide lower and lower into my torso until it rested watery and heavy.

Pregnant with my life. My life that is death.

So:

Pregnant with death, due date: NEVER.

I feel so stupid, staying up all night to paint for you, lugging up presents all to have GINA VORTRUBA [sp of tards name?] underneath your futon.

Everything in you is rotten and spoiled like garbage sitting for a few days too long.

A corpse in Massassoit State Park half-exhumed.

You are everything you said you hated. You are everything you used to accuse me of being.

I was driving home from work and I felt such an affinity with the season- cold, misty gray afternoons and crystal cold india ink nights.

I am leading myself deeper into myself, creating some sort of secular world in which everyone outside of me is a fuck who shouldn't be trusted. Nobody will really know who I am because I cannot put into words these things going on in my chest and these things going on in my brain. I will never be able to bring it out to everyone else and make them KNOW.

I have a theory that your body acts involuntarily to the mind and that on a daily basis my body kicks into motions that gets shit done but then my mind is just like: ...................