The New Me

by Halle Butler

an aimless bile rising at the back of my throat already, as usual, for no reason, like it always does,

I want to take a shower, get nice and clean, but I don’t.

He had a talent for making me feel mean.

I want to go home. But not to my apartment home, to my thirteen‑years‑ago home, to my hug‑my‑mother home, say I will make her proud, apologize, explain I can do better this time, be in my bed, be in my room, look at a magazine, plan my day, start not from scratch but just a little bit back, make different decisions, try to cultivate confidence, try not to coddle bad thoughts, be better, take the right things seriously,

I also remember a few times I’ve been abruptly aggressive, sure, but it’s unhealthy to dwell on the past.

It’s like sucking on a rock and pretending it’s candy, talking to this guy.

I can’t drink water because the water isn’t sweet enough.

I spend time ripping the tangled knots out of my hair,

all my past experiences a collected grime I look through.

A flood of adrenal toxins enters my bloodstream.

I play out scenarios ranging from a pay raise and a savings account to a fully realized depression that lasts for years and years and finally erases me.

not like who I am now, flailing, filled with puke, thinking about death and feeling angry all the time.

If I were a better person, I wouldn’t have to be so judgmental all the time.

the skin on my hands has become rough and dry and cracked,

Chat chat chat, chatty old me.

I fold the clothing from my ever‑present pile, make the bed, spray lavender-scented room spray everywhere.

I pace the apartment, my prison! my home!

If I had unlimited energy, I would do laundry.

I’ve been depressed since I lost my boyfriend and my job and all my fake friends during a time when I probably should have been medicated

My bedsheets, which used to be white, have a grayish tinge in the middle. Bowls on the nightstand, coffee mugs on the floor.

all that rage still alive in me, useless and embarrassing.

I lie in bed under the covers unable to move, unable to even cry, feeling a hatred for myself so wide and endless it’s almost funny.

it’s so fucking frustrating, so boring, I could die.

I want to spit in her face and scream, but it wouldn’t matter.