how much is enough love?

I don’t know how I got here.

I’m not good at writing for a long time - I forget how I walked into the room. I forget what year I’m in. Feelings come in fast and as long as I’m in it, I’m okay. But this is different. The ghosts of the people of the people I’m writing about disappear and I’m left with the empty hole of right now.

The text notifications keep coming in and I whisper “Fuck Off” to myself and no-one.

The house I’m in has bad windows - it has lots of windows, but they all face nothing. I need to see, I need to feel the view of everything. Without the view I’m just pacing again. On the toilet again, doing nothing. When I wake up I make weird noises, I let out low sustained screams as I move from room to room. I can’t wait to leave. I want to leave everywhere, I don’t know what enough is.

5 years ago I painted:

“HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH LOVE?”

on a giant canvas and then covered it with paint so nobody could actually read It. I can read it though, but nobody else can read it.

HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH LOVE? YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

I still don’t know the answer.

--

“I want you to speak to yourself like someone you love” she said, leaning towards me over a single candle lit table in what used to be Minerva Cafe in the west village. I hated how much sense she made, I hated the way how she was right. I hated that she said this, while not being in love with me anymore. I went to the bathroom after downing what was left of my wine - just to look myself in the mirror and whisper:

“You’re a worthless piece of nothing, look at you, you pathetic fucking waste of life fucking cunt, kill yourself.”

Back in this room. Garbage trucks are driving up and down the street. They sound like city buses if I let them, but they’re not city buses. When I was 11, I used to listen to the garbage trucks on 71st street, the white noise of the city is missing for me here.

I feel cut off from my home.

I do not have a home.

all I can do is sit in my shit now, with the questions, and this.

I’m not good at writing for a long time, I don’t know how to do this. I can’t plan for you - you, the person reading. Reading on your phone, somewhere in your life or at your job or in your bed, are you feeling sweet today? are you feeling good? I’m talking to you. I don’t know how to do this. But I need you to stay with me forever, because I am having a very hard time.