super sick

 April 11th 2025 

"Behind ever exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

And I'm sick of it. January was a wound I dressed, by dressing up. I wanted to summon spring by spilling watercolors against this journal and calling it art. I'd frame it, sell it and make a fortune. Bet.. Big bet. She taught me new words, meaning of life. I wish we could sip pina coladas by the Pacific Ocean at the hotel del Coronado. So I could show her life, real moments, and what it's like to live.

I'm writing poems in my head about cumulus clouds while sitting on the toilet of my ex-girlfriend's house. 

I went back to therapy. I told her I was happy, sober a year, her fingers gripped her pen scribbling on her notepad. I think to myself, she's basically talking shit in her notebook.

“Oh, Jamie, your eyes do not lie to me.” 

February wasn't a curse, it was the best celebration for me. I was falling and pretending to be enchanted. As though, I am not afraid of witchcraft, as though…. my spell is meant to be magic. I passed out in hotel hallways and lobbies because I drank too much and ate too little.

And March, I finally knew. I was in love. I wrote Love letters, satin Red roses, made dinners all while playing house. I found the one whom my soul loves. Like our first love, that's what it was to me. I fell hard, fast, for the first time, sober. I wore my favorite earrings, my sexy lingerie, always made sure my lips were glossed in Red so she would stare at them. I listen to wedding songs and country music in a loop.

Repeat even in my dreams.

And in April, there was relapse, and broken hearts. A short romance. I truly believed that summer in my chest could last a lifetime and for sure I'm going to need help.

While a whirlwind of a romance, it's not what she wanted at 27 years old two full-time jobs, avoidant attachment meets anxious attachment. It just got to be something either of us really could understand.

Conflicted, confused and chaotic. It wasn't love, after all.