lyd

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nips.

so lately.

I havent been posting, I havent really been in this universe more like. I have been extrmely depressed. Had to bury the most important person in my life, watched her sink into the dirt. Went on a three day drug binge with everything I could get my hands on. Wanted to die. Woke up to find that life still goes on. In the process of trying to get myself back together but there are so many pieces. Gotten into the habit of wine every night and a big fat blunt to soak it up.I am very easily to become an addict, you know.. once an addict always an addict, no matter what it is. pills. cigs. alcohol. weed. sex. Im addicted to it all. More like addicted to escaping my own reality.

trying hard to find myself, but i dont really know if i want to be found.

Love in my hands.

I held her hands as she lay in her hospital bed, hair all ratted aginst her sweaty pillow. My nanny has always been beautiful in my eyes, not model pretty, but the kind of pretty you earn from being a hardworking strong woman. In this bed she didnt look beautiful, she is giving up. She is dying. The strongest woman Ive ever known, who I thought hung the moon, has come to the point where she has nothing left to give. She reaches for me as I enter the room, even with seven other people standing around, its like we are the only two people there. We have always had a special bond. She practically raised me growing up. My earliest memories are of her. When I think back on my childhood I see her reading me books snuggled up in her old brown recliner. I see her making me breakfast, I can still hear the baccon crackling on the stove. I dont remember my own mother ever teaching me anything, but she taught me to spell my name and how to tie my shoes. Everything I learned about love, came from her. Her hands are aching from her lack of oxygen, without speaking she puts them in mine. I grab her favorite lavender lotion off the bedside table and massage them. As I rub her fingers I notice that they look like mine. Short little chubby sausages. Her skin is uneven, brown spots where the sun has stained them from working outside in our fields. Rough purple bumps form scars. Her skin isnt soft or beautiful, but her hands tell a story.They are the same hands that lifted me up when I was small. Looking at them I fear I will forget all that these hands have done so much for me. I hold them and even as she drifts off to sleep I keep rubbing for fear that it might be the last time I ever have them in mine. I dont want to ever forget what they look like so I try and try to memorize every inch of their surfce. She struggles to breath and is gasping for breaths but I just keep holding, Im not ready to let go. Will I ever be able to let go? My children will never see these hands. They will never know the love that they gave me. I can tell them all my stories but she will never hold them, or know them. I grasp tighter and stay there for hours, thinking of random memories and those that will never come in the future, all the while, Im holding love in my hands.