overture to blog in b flat

This isn't what you think.

This isn't about getting to heaven. It was never about getting to heaven. This is about why I can't sleep at night.

This is about dish soap and dust mites and ceiling fans and thumb tacks. This is about the oven opening, and bread. This is about cereal for breakfast, and this is about cereal for lunch. This is about the sound of a siren passing your house: "Probably nothing".

This isn't about me. It was never about me. You know who I'm talking about and it's probably you.

But I want you to know something about me: I'm invincible. I'm also breakable. I'm passive aggressive and ungrateful and blasphemous. One day I woke up in the morning and the whole solar system had fallen at my feet.

I am a vice, not a virtue. I've been trying to prove myself for seventeen years but I've forgotten who I'm supposed to be proving myself to.

Here's a confession: I didn't apologize when I ended the world. 

I didn't pull the scabs off to let it heal: I pulled the scabs off to let it bleed out. Here's the truth, finally: the only thing I do better than whispering is shouting.

I won the sun in the lottery but I didn't want it because nothing is ever good enough for me.

Be gentle around me because God took me off the grill while I was still rare and bloody. I bruise very easily. I fall in love very easily. Same thing.

I just want you to know that there's no going back now. We're in this mess together; if the ship goes down, so do we. I don't want you to cut ties with me, I just want a hair trim. I don't want you to go back indoors, I just want you to wear sunscreen. Be prepared for me, but don't leave me.

Because if I go to Hell for this blog, I'm taking you with me.

This has been The Devastation Diaries.