Paytan Douglas

Cackling crows, or howling hyenas, perhaps.

The booze in my stomach finally curdling after rotten feelings caught up with sickeningly sweet grenadine.

I don’t have to have the happiest day of my life at the same time as my friend. It is perfectly fine for us to have different happiest days. The only difference between us is you will have an anniversary on yours, and I can’t remember mine.

The rattle in my bones from music of various genres and artists spanning decades isn’t unpleasant. But it does slingshot me back to a time where friends were scarce and love even moreso. Two-faces and possessive jealousy came in droves, with silver linings few and far between.

Eyelids heavy with makeup no one will notice and a burgundy lace dress far less filling than the one worn by an oblivious sibling, the only reprieve in sight is an old spruce table and matching wobbly bench nestled away on the second-story balcony.

Months of stress built up on broad shoulders. Blisters on big feet popped hours ago. Strawberry curls have long since flattened. Pocket watch—broken and unwavering in its static, incorrect state—blinked up, praying to be fixed.

Looking out a thin, six-panel window, drooping or dead trees the only things in sight despite the summer sun shining brightly, I do the same.

Someone, please. If there is a God, or are Gods, please.

Fix me.

Fix this bruised, bleeding heart. Fix a head full of self-deprecation and awkward ramblings. Fix the dragging feet and aching soul, exhausted from a measly two and a half decades on a dying planet, despite others suffering much and many more.

Fix the ears made to listen that struggle to. Fix the sharp tongue that cuts before assessing situations that would benefit more from a spoon. Fix the inability to stomach anything but grains and dairy. Fix the body that feels as beaten as the rest of me.

Fix any of it, and my gratitude lies with your shrine. I will be in your debt, so long as I don’t become broken once more.

Or don’t.

My faith is as fickle as you Gods.

Have your power nap.

I will plaster on a smile. I will fight for my friends’ happiness, even at the expense of my own, wherein it ranks lower than my last root canal on “happiest days” for me.

I will sleep tonight. I will get up in the morning, blisters and all.

And I will survive this internal, eternal hell some sick fuck wants me to keep going through.