Quiet, pretended normalization of her childless-psychosis

Masking every scent of her current pseudo-fertility; then masking, as best she can, every sign of her perpetual weariness (locked by delightful, decorous dalliances belied by constant sighs and furtive fidgeting); cramming cotton into her most dangerous hole, to prevent the most natural “accidents” in human existence; marching to her daily, drudging “empowerment.” Futility.

Her safety and security had always depended, and seemed to her would always depend, on her hating every last natural, normal thing about others and herself.

“This is not living,” she wept silently in her mind, as she chattered away each opportunity for outward discovery and inward awareness — stuck on socially-mandated autopilot with all the other sterile, frantic, cackling, grimacing, sedentary masochists: Coffee, coughing, collating, coordinating, dying.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s