8 Thousand Days
Man, I'm dead tired. I want to sleep for eight thousand days, twenty-four hours for each day I missed with my birth daughter over these many years. I never felt this tired before. But I have a boat load of Avon to deliver, and it's days late and my customers are calling and leaving increasingly desperate messages and I can't make my tongue move, say the words "Well I visited my birth daughter for the first time ever this weekend and so I'm late with the deliveries" and instead I say "Oh sorry, I'll get it to you tonight and I'll give you a free product for the trouble." I can barely speak at all. My voice sounds like sour apple Jolly Ranchers, just this edge of forever crying. I never felt this mix of happiness and emptiness before. I think I stuffed a cork in my heart the months after my rape, when I knew I was pregnant, when I knew I was giving birth, when I knew I was going to relinquish all parental rights and give up my baby and hand her over to the state. I stuffed a champagne cork in my heart, and sealed it with black wax and let my deep regret age, take on flavors of oak and strawberry sadness. Oh man, I can't stop crying. I'm crying now. Damn it, it's been two decades of crying, and I thought it was all out of my system but I found those hidden bottles in my gut and now I'm pouring, I'm dripping, I don't know how long this will last.
5:01:47 PM 
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