Thursday 1/6/22

There is a storm beneath my skin. An overflow of energy— the desire to destroy the path in front of me. Winter is unforgiving this year. Dysphoria often feels heavy within me. My weightlessness feels like comfort. A numbness which gains weight over time. An endless cycle. The words are engraved in my chest— a man who slept at the bus stop and froze to death. Snowflakes stick to my window and disappear through the night. The storm welcomes me. She is within my body and between the buildings. She created Christianity if only to send locusts into the church. She is beneath my covers and frozen at the bus stop. I should like to subscribe to love as one does to Christianity. Give my woes to another man— trust that he holds the secrets to prosperity with his handkerchief. I wonder if the invisible storm will grow numb over time. It is strange how two blocks from my apartment the wind suddenly comes to life. The storm tells me that I shan’t destroy my path for she will do it instead. A locust skin is scattered to pieces beneath a tree. Next to his corpse there is a handkerchief. I like to think she is welcoming me— I’m glad you’re home.

— ODH