I haven't been writing.

I haven't been writing.

Maybe it's because I'm supposed to be writing, or because I've found other ways to expunge my emotions, but I haven't been writing, and I think that's okay.

It's okay because I lost you. I lost you last week and I knew it was coming, like the aftermath of the year's biggest hurricane, predicted on my local weather station. I had my 72-hour-kit, I did my research, I was ready for the power outage. I held my breath when you told me the news, and my voice was so shaky--I told you I was cold, and you believed me.

It's okay because I'm hurting, and I'm hurting everywhere in a way I haven't before. Some of it is because of you, and some of it is because of my own external recklessness, but maybe that is in some ways also because of you. I had to find ways to live, ways to move, move away from the kinds of hype I used to get when I thought about you or when I imagined myself close to revealing my feelings. I knew my highs needed to come from somewhere else, or at least I needed to distract myself.

And now I'm here with nothing to distract me and I feel it in my stomach, a kind of curdling that leaves me tossing with disgust and discomfort, and I want to escape it. My stomach is boiling. I can't get away.