Today we’ll talk about male depression. It’s a good one! Enjoy!
The sweating, the back pain, and the lump in my throat come from me living squeezed in the corner. Being crushed by a fat ass – of someone who overeats – growing every day. Gaining more and more cellulite and stretch marks. Expanding and loosening, stretching, relaxing, and suffocating who I am. Blocking my path.
A fat ass cannot have this power. It can’t squeeze me like this. It has to be like a balloon: Once it starts to tighten, you prick it and let it burst.
Living confined is claustrophobic. It’s unbearable. And it’s unacceptable to live with something unbearable. That fat ass will have to get up using the rotten knees of those who don’t love themselves and go sit somewhere else because the middle is mine.
It’s so mine that it bears my name. It carries who I am. It is who I am. The middle is me. There is no other way, and no Carla Dax will tune or thicken their voice to adapt to madness.
If I can hear, why can’t they? Where is it written that only others can speak and I can’t?
I will speak straight from the heart to the souls and hearts of others, and everyone will listen. My turn has come! Our turn always comes, right? Try to sustain. See how far from sustaining you are. And see if you’ll give up on me or if you’ll rush to handle this support.
I walk barefoot, naked, through the middle, which is where and whence I came. It’s for who I am.