Bayou

Some days I feel great.
Everything falls into place, I work hard, I play hard. My life feels like it's on a track. I know where I'm going.
Today isn't one of those days.
All of a sudden something simple fills me with rage. Not a good sign, I think. Before I know it, I blossom like a helium balloon. There's heat in my cheeks. Why am I so mad? I try to set it down, put it away. I place my palms down, breathing slowly. Go away, my brain begs.
I go out. Somewhere and with people I feel safe. At least I thought. It's like the world conspires against me.
Every once in a while, I think, not so quietly, I hate everyone.
I don't. But I'm surprised how often the thought surfaces. Why is this all I get? Creepy men following me to book club.
I try to swallow the thoughts back.
But they're unruly.
For some reason they brings thoughts of other things. Suddenly I'm mad. I'm mad at you for being disingenuous. I'm mad for you calling me babe. I'm mad for you wrapping your arms around me. I'm mad for you buying me popsicles. I'm mad for you pulling me in to dance. I'm mad for you talking about my birthday like you'll still be here.
None of it is real!
This thought has hit me in the gut, slapped me in the face, knocked me to the ground.
It doesn't mean ANYTHING.
It's not real. You're not real.
I watch the difference in your language change from "love" to "care" and my insides wrench.
You're not real.
Run, I think.
You should run.
I can't help a look back with a stumble.
It's not real. None of it was ever real.