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I usually don't do dark. Darkly humorous, darkly sarcastic, but not deeply dark. It's a sad, scary place that I don't like to deal with, and so, I have learned to turn myself into a manatee and laugh at the broken bits by making light of them. For one time only, I shall make an exception.
I was digging through a box and found an old flash drive full of school files. Several sub-folders in I discovered some writing I did about seven years ago. The first one is mostly dark-ish sarcastic and the second is dark (but not too deeply).
​
Lonely Cat Lady Blues
The lonely cat lady blues,
anthem of so many nights spent
trying to breathe through the fur curled up by your head.
Every morning between showering and buttering burnt toast
traipse  to the food bin and haphazardly gather
the ritual offering of kibble that costs more than its probably worth.
Anything for my babies . . .
Did I just say that?
Oh god, who have I become?
I’m just two steps away from a shot gun, a moo moo, and a
“You kids get off my lawn!”
I can’t be unhappy,
surely someone would have noticed if I’m unhappy . . .
After all I’ve got my job and
my job and
my job.
I’m sensing an uncomfortable pattern here.
What the hell happened to me?
The girl who danced on her living room table,
wore fantastically eccentric jewelry,
got tattoos,
dared the world to “Bring it On!”
I’ve shriveled, dried up, become a hollow shell.
SNAP OUT OF IT!
Remember your roots.
Remember your great grandmother,
grandmother,
aunt.
Women who roared,
Gave hugs that would break a grown man’s spine,
Grabbed the bull by the horns and rode, rode, rode.
Screw you Dido –
I will not go down with this ship.
I will be Gertrude Ederle.
I will swim the Chanel of self-loathing, ice cream binge
and emerge triumphant, roaring a battle cry.
I am no complacent cat lady,
I am a proud, dignified, independent, self-loving,
motivated, fearless cat lady!
And I remember!
I remember who I am!
So go ahead world
 BRING
IT
ON!

Loosing me quietly
You’re loosing me quietly,
I can feel myself pulling away.
It’s one hand on the door, one foot to the carpeted floor
Slipping out before you feel the pressure subside on the mattress.
I love you, love you, loved you
not a typo, just past tense.
A feeling draining out like lukewarm bathwater,
no longer comforting just neutral.
Don’t hate me, I hate me
but that’s a lie.
I feel like I should at least feel remorse, and I do
but I’m not sure that fear of loosing
should justify the act of staying.  

I have saved the last for last. This is dark. So dark I have questioned sharing it with you. I have, on many occasions, toyed with the idea of writing an autobiography, but have never gotten far out of respect for the many, many people who probably do not wish to be in my autobiography. This came from a rough, rough draft of a collection of paragraphs that got lost in a box for seven years. It is about one of those closed of places that I don't really talk about in a tone that I rarely use. It is vulnerable, and sad, and deeply, deeply dark. Consider yourself warned.

"I wish it had been for love – desperate, passionate, undying love.  Instead it was for emptiness.  I chose this boy because he seemed to understand the desperate emptiness consuming me.  He played the guitar and painted magical pictures, and he knew what it meant to be absolutely shipwrecked inside.  I really, really liked him and I was convinced that if I did this he might just love me enough to give me a place that I belonged.  As I lay on the concrete floor stoned out of my mind, the only thing I felt was broken.  After I broke down in tears, he stopped to watch as the last of my innocence ran down the laundry drain.  Face to the cold floor, my heart turned to stone."

Thank you for lending any eyeball. We now return you to your regularly scheduled Manadee.