Saving face

There once was this time, where I walked with clenched fists, down by my side so I wouldn't start crying.

Lump in my throat so I wouldn’t start crying.

Eyes to the ground so I wouldn’t start crying.

My pace quickens, and I count the steps to the elevator until I’m alone with a man who must be asking me what floor I live on, but I don’t know what he’s saying, and I don’t know how to say the numbers in Thai, so instead I weave around him to press 13.

And looking at the ground is no longer working, so my eyes flick about in their sockets, like they are fresh with white powder, but I’m not high, I’m so low.

I’m so low.

The tears are getting dangerously close, but I can't lose face.

And I stumble down the hall to my door, where I fumble with keys because I can’t stop shaking, and I get the wrong key because there are so many keys.

I get into my room, and I strip off my clothes, and I strip off my face as the tears start flowing and there is no stopping, just stomping as I leave my shoes on to kill the ants that cover my floor.

But there’s no food in here, that doesn’t make sense. I don’t eat, because I’m always sick. But yet here are the ants, in their armies.

Here are the ants in my shower.

Here are the ants on my dresser, camping out in my skirts.

All I want is advice, but all I get are jokes, because it’s Thailand and nothing makes sense here. And that’s okay because being logical and sensible is overrated but this is my life, all jokes aside.

And tomorrow I’ll read this and say, “Wow … that was a lot.”

But here I am, and I can’t stop crying, and I’m still wearing shoes, because I can’t bare the ants.

And I want to sleep, but my top sheet is sand, from that one time I went to Phuket and someone stole everything, and after a 16 hour bus ride I didn’t have the diligence to shower before crawling into my pillows and dying.

And every time I do laundry everything gets stained, a seeping pink spreads like an infection to everything in the washer, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong so I just won’t do the laundry.

But I'm so tired.

I’m deciding that the sand is okay, because my bed is better, and I don’t want to write this anymore.

I’m deciding that today is okay, and tomorrow will be better.

I don't want to write this anymore.