Tonight I hope something pours out of me. The LED clouds are on, ergo ambiance, and I ate the healthy food for lunch and I got the sun and the laundry is handled. 

You don’t care about that. I don’t care about that—about the things I/we have to get in order before the real things, the better things, the finally-things can come out. I want to let them out. 

Get out, GET OUT! 

I’m yelling. Maybe they’re more like baby mice. Maybe they need the soft words.

Come on out little buddies. Please, I need you. I know you’re in there, I can feel you kicking the walls. I have a clean apartment and a healthy atmosphere. I’ve been keeping it up for you. I don’t know why it’s taking you so long.. Please come out. It’s frustrating that I can’t quite see you. I need to see you. I need you out here. 

(Please.)

Bukowski said that he kept the bluebird in his chest and there was the girl, who was also keeping the bluebird in her chest, all locked up. They never knew. 

Goddamnit. I don’t want to not know. I want to open the cage. 

I don’t—I don’t know how to open it.



Let me try to say it another way

First of all, hang on. pause. can i just mention..

that i don’t like punctuation. see that apostrophe? not me. that was all bill. or whoever did autocorrect. periods? questionmarks? ok fine those were me—but only when i feel like it and don’t expect consistency. if you can’t figure out what i’m saying because a few little squiggles are missing then.. 

and i mean this.. 

i want to talk about divorcing you. 

it’s just not going to work out because it’s clear to me from right here that i’m not going to satisfy your imposing and brutish need for unwavering conformity to rules that you can’t even acknowledge as being temporarily contrived. and to be honest, i think that’s a bit gross of you. 

we’re just going to end up eating away at each others throats, insulting each other in exactly all the ways we hope never to be insulted, until we can’t even remember a time where we held the faintest respect, curiosity, or awe for one another’s potential. and if fostering that sort of contemptuous mindset is your bag then you should understand that i am not for you. in fact, you should probably understand that i am your enemy—and not, as you(/we) may have quietly (quietly, quietly) hoped; the arbiter of some great epiphanous change. 

(& yes i know that’s not a word but you fucking get it.)

at least, that’s why i read most of the time. the search. the quest for words that will unlock the parts of my guts that feel like they’re holding back little pieces of me who bang against the walls saying “let me out bitch” 

to which i say

bitch i am trying. let yourself out. no really. i can feel you in there. i would also like very much if you could figure out how to get the fuck out. 

because i figure that love is either in how i feel about myself or how others love me and neither one is attainable, i don’t think, until all you little gorgeous pieces are free. Because how can I love me if I don’t know how to be me, and how can I be loved for what I really am if no one can see her?



So,

Come on little hunnies. Come on you cute little fucking shy-for-no-reason assholes. Come on get the fuck out now pretty please. Little sweeties. Little nuggets of the real me. 

come on out now.

Loren Spurlock is a writer, veteran, and artist, among other things. Her work is the quest for keys to thought-liberation, autonomy, and awareness of the universal veins that connect all people. She values good ambiance, deep conversations, anything with cream cheese, and heresy. 

Featured Image