Musings of a dumb bitch

Sainsbury's Brandy

Nothing much. Sainsbury's brandy, dusty and yellowed in a cupboard.
Dust that danced in restless jostling.
The disturbance of aged air in the scramble for shoes with a fruitless torch.
The dust is gone and so is the drink.
Dust to dust.
I know drinking on a Thursday, alone, wasn't always the direction I saw my life going but I'm not mad at it.

"But why the brandy?" I hear the disturbed dust ask.
"Can't you let an old bottle rest?"
Well my dusty friends I was just a bit sad. That's about it.
No cheeky suicide attempt, not even a little cut for the shits and giggles.
I just didn't want to feel it.
I didn't want to feel anything.

Judge away. It worked regardless.
I said "I've been going through it lately". Maybe I'm not going through it. There can be misery without malady.
Is it not enough to be sad without the NHS putting me on a waiting list.
Just sad. Nothing really happened.
I mean my life is a dumpster fire.
It aint much but it's honest work.
And I feel fine. With friends it's good and loud. Noisy and sharp. A world in focus.
Alone?
Different story. It's hard to describe.
The physical weight of it.
I'm slumped in an empty bath as I type this. A hand rests in my chest and clutches firmly but gently.
Like a disappointing knee squeeze when you're crying but people don't know how to make you stop.
Not on my heart. A little bit to the right.
Just sitting there.
Iron weights in my lungs. Maybe a kilogram each.
Nothing much really.
But it never goes.
Every moment of everyday; I feel it there.

Sometimes, most times. I want nothing more than for the world to fall silent. I shut my eyes and I'm in my room. Door shut and curtains drawn. Silent outside and in.
I am alone.
Hidden, safe and curled in the nest of my dead Grandma's duvet. I still smell her in it. The floral perfume and sharp Yorkshire tongue.
I don't think she ever liked me.
Dust to dust.
I draw the duvet around me tightly and I am impenetrable.
No words, no faces to know me now.
Yellowed air lies heavily on my skin.
Disturbed dust dancing in the shadow of sunlight.
But I'm not there.

At home wish I was home.
Displaced and disturbed.
I'm not sure if I could ever belong.
I am no one. I am nothing.
I just want to sleep.
That's the kind way of wishing to be dead.
I'm tired, so fucking tired.

An empty bottle of Sainsbury's brandy stashed under my birth certificate.
Shoved to the dark depths of my wardrobe.
A hand in my chest and weights in my lungs.
Yellowed air lays heavily over me in mutual exhaustion.
Disturbed dust falls from its dance because the song has ended.
And I'm tired.
I'm so fucking tired.