Know me on the days you don't want to.
When I gnaw my gumline and fall afoul of feeling angry about something that would never have mattered, patterns of self-woven grief in a thinning tapastry, an anomie made by someone.
Someone who we can only see unravel the lives of others and assume it'll happen to us, must.
I fear for the days that I rage about anything when you could die at any moment and your last thoughts would be of the remote not working. Or a smashed plate, late fees, burned cheese on toast or any other of the things that are barely even events going wrong.
Remember when you were in trouble as a kid because you let the rabbit out of the hutch and it got away and you grinned? Binned something important? Stole from the biscuit tin?
Well you wish you could take it back now. You're an adult and you're in trouble because you can't breathe. You're in trouble because you're bleeding out. You're in trouble because you're dying.
And there's nothing you can take back after they're gone, as empty and hollow as the TV remote with batteries that need changing. Twenty years of pure commitment and the denouement is pain.
Or sadness.
Or confusion.
Childlike eyes set in oversized heads and strange hairy alien bodies that we never quite grew into.
Know me on the days you don't want to. On the days that you're upset. And please hold me because, one of us will fall down, and then they will be known no more.
