Sunday.

Something that’s too dark to say aloud is that I miss when I was crazy. When I was broken apart by either love or loss it was a signature suffering. I knew exactly what I wanted and all my wants were simple. I wanted to marry my arms and legs together into one ball. I wanted to tear out my long pretty hair and hold it in my hands. I wanted to shriek in the back field until I tasted blood. Everything was animal and everything was so close to actually dying that nothing was frightening. The whole world and the dead world were my back garden that I wandered solitary around and fucked my ex boyfriend in like a ghost girl.

I don’t know now the ways in which I hurt. I’ve poured my sane self back over the rest of me and nothing is clear. I feel it still there. A reverse exorcism waiting to happen.

On Sunday I walked along the path that takes me to his tree. My deceased dearest. It’s not even his tree. It’s my tree for him which I coined when I was crazy. On route a delightful rain rolled over and just dampened my anorak and further riled my scampy Boo who had left without her collar on.

When he first died I imagined him everywhere. Lit up under lampposts and standing in the corner of my room while I wept. It’s less now, the more I pour. But this Sunday, for a moment, in the rain, I’m mad again. I cry and it feels good. I breathe in the wind directly and feel another ghost behind me to my right. We’re both wild. Both ghosts. Both the wind and the rain.

Then Boo looks cold, so I walk her home.

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