zyprexa times

i'm bleeding all over everything. today i was lazy and i put my boxers in the washing machine instead of soaking them in cold water with dish soap like my mom taught me to do when i was thirteen. the stains didn't come out and i stood at the sink for twenty minutes running them under alternating cold and hot water with a bottle of sunlight.
there's paperwork all over my bed and a half finished beer on my desk, and even though it's eleven thirty and i'm about to go to sleep, i'm wearing this ridiculous woven bone white beret that makes me look jamaican.
today was the big switch day. the big switch day always makes me sad, makes me guilty, even though i've been to therapy enough times to hear the counselors say inside my head, chelsea, this is not your stuff. and that's what they say. stuff. like it's luggage or something. like it's duffel bags i'm trying to carry even though they don't have my name on them. i like my room at my father's house better. it looked austere before i put all my stuff (and i am talking about luggage) on the floor, but i've had this room longer. i've had this room since i was three. no one has turned it into a home gym in my absence.
and on my way out the door to the airport this morning, i stopped dead in the foyer. my dad finally filled the hole in the wall where, in the summer, he tried to make a mail slot but couldn't because in his percocet-induced delirium, he forgot to check for studs. the plaster has been sanded, but not painted, and i fingered it like a scar.
the corona is finished and i miss you. i wasn't supposed to miss you. this wasn't part of the plan.