thinking

his disease and violent marriage, my mother's mental illness = that's a ton of fucking bricks.

but I am not them, I'm not even very much like either of them, none of that had/has anything to do with me.

I found in the scorched earth of myself this little buttercup of sweet feeling: I'd like it if you were here tonight. in this bed, in this dead quiet, I remember feeling that. a tender pleasant surprise I found in me for him, and I held it out like cool right? 

then a ton of bricks came down on that innocent-enough little buttercup of feeling, wiley coyote style. it's 🤏 almost funny.