uneven pavement

today i call my dad and can barely get through the secretary answering without crying. she asks who it is and i say gabrielle and even my name sounds different outside of my head. i feel like i havent spoke in days. i dont trust my voice, my thoughts, my hands. i can hardly hold a cup, two hands to hold the bottle to my lips as i lay sideways, watch episodes of sex and the city over and over and over until i fall into some sweaty lucid sleep, im still dreaming of san francisco, waking up dissapointed. i keep falling asleep hoping ill wake up somewhere else. ive never felt this way before.
and im addicted to the internet, the connection, the emotion i cant let go of, i dont forget about you as easily as you forget about me. i finally get myself to unpack today, close my eyes and do it as fast as i can, shove my suitcase on the top shelf of the closet and slam the door, kick my shoes around the room, rip the curtains off the wall, im pissed off more than sad, lonely and angry more than anything, ive started talking to myself, talking to inantimate objects as though they are people. i dont see any way out of this. no real way. i dont see anything here for me. its all bleak and upsetting and if my body´s any indication, this place is literally making me sick.
you think im being dramatic, that im not trying hard enough. and fuck, maybe youre right. maybe im being weak and dependent but ive never been those before so cut me a fucking break, give me a little space to be that. i dont know what else to do right now. all the streets are uneven, patches of dirt poke through and even though its april and people are expecting the weather to turn i still keep saying its hot, like a surprise and thank goodness, because all i brought is summer clothes, all my shoes are fucked up and i keep stubbing my toes and breaking nails and im just falling apart all over the place, this city doesnt agree with me.
at the newspaper everyone loves me and praises me and thinks im soooo funny and i smile for them and try to tell them stories about argentina and what i write for them is only half of what really happened, is only half of what i felt there, of what i feel now, that other half is secret, just for me, is locked up somewhere becuase im too afraid to look at it right now. too afraid that if i think about you anymore i will absolutely explode. so i keep smiling and when i leave i try to listen to music as i walk home but everything, no, really, everything reminds me of you and so i risk the noise of the city for fear of throwning up on the corner of what the fuck am i doing here and pull yourself together.