insomnia musings (I)
Friday, 10 October 2025 05:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
crashmarguliesthree a.m. is the hour I haunt the living room, exhausted, babysitting my cat while he makes excited and curious noises and repeatedly tries to break into my metamour's bedroom.
cat-cries and cool window air and heavy eyelids. dry mouth and weed smoke, diet coke and podcasts about the people trying to kill me. I wonder what the motive for their hatred of me is this time: the sex organs or the sex I choose to have? the queer parts of me that aren't a woman or the ones that love those women? my unfuckability via fatness or ethnicity? my madness as in "can't make eye contact," or as in "sometimes talks to ghosts"?
in the end it doesn't matter. in the end I'll be just as dead, gravestone with a name just as wrong. obituary full of inaccuracies because the truth is ugly to people who have already made up their minds. in the end they won't call her my wife, not just because she has a shadow of stubble on her jaw or because I've got tits I can't afford to have chopped off but because either way she's already married, and we'll be "good friends, close roommates," lost to history like everyone before us.
what good does fighting do if everyone goes to bed hungry? what good is the toiling if everyone ends up dead?
sometimes I think I'm impatient for the ending of the story. any story. maybe I'm impatient for the answers to my questions. maybe just for a time I don't have to think so much of the questions themselves anymore.
perhaps I will sit on the couch until Dawn finds me: first, sunrise; then, lover.
maybe today that will be enough.
cat-cries and cool window air and heavy eyelids. dry mouth and weed smoke, diet coke and podcasts about the people trying to kill me. I wonder what the motive for their hatred of me is this time: the sex organs or the sex I choose to have? the queer parts of me that aren't a woman or the ones that love those women? my unfuckability via fatness or ethnicity? my madness as in "can't make eye contact," or as in "sometimes talks to ghosts"?
in the end it doesn't matter. in the end I'll be just as dead, gravestone with a name just as wrong. obituary full of inaccuracies because the truth is ugly to people who have already made up their minds. in the end they won't call her my wife, not just because she has a shadow of stubble on her jaw or because I've got tits I can't afford to have chopped off but because either way she's already married, and we'll be "good friends, close roommates," lost to history like everyone before us.
what good does fighting do if everyone goes to bed hungry? what good is the toiling if everyone ends up dead?
sometimes I think I'm impatient for the ending of the story. any story. maybe I'm impatient for the answers to my questions. maybe just for a time I don't have to think so much of the questions themselves anymore.
perhaps I will sit on the couch until Dawn finds me: first, sunrise; then, lover.
maybe today that will be enough.