The Posy Diaries

Kennedy Morrison is an unapologetic 20-something year old in the throes of recovering from a recent breakup from Blake Henley. Blake lives thousands of miles away from her. Kennedy has chronic depression and anxiety and Blake has ADHD and depression. They're both chronically sad and lonely. Can Kennedy stop her consumption by her own worst enemy: herself? Is her relationship with Blake salvageable?


Author's note

WARNING: This story contains strong language, graphic imagery, explicit sexual content, and possible drug use. Please read at your own discretion. You must be 18 years old or older to read this.

4. IV.



Annalise comes back in the early morning, her keys jiggling into the keyhole with such forcefulness that I hear it from my position on the couch. I've become distinctively aware of my being a recluse. It's become a full-time job that I nurture, apathetic, boldly daring to simply exist within the off-white walls of our small apartment. The black door swings open and muted light dreamily bathes the room. Annalise flutters around me like a whimsical sprite, shakes her head at me vehemently, with disdain, and mutters about how I can't “live like this.” Live like what? Like a woman who's truly hurting over having been used? Earnestly? Live like someone reeling emotionally from a not-really-breakup?


She yanks open the curtains and lets more light stream into the room, washing over the brown couch, the coffee table where my feet are propped up, slanting diagonally across Ein's doggy bed. The light illuminates my phone, reflects the murky silhouette of my slim body on the couch, and her own form momentarily eclipses mine in the screen. I stare at it, at some point beyond it, and realize that, yes, I had called my therapist and left her a message. There was an opened bottle of white wine—Riesling—on the kitchen counter top. The cork was a few inches away from it, the bottle opener in the sink, wet with wine, unwashed and forgotten. A bowl of soggy cereal half-eaten had taken its residence on the counter top too.


Annalise joined me on the couch, twirled a long dark tendril of hair around her finger and stared at her copper hued suede ankle boots.


“Mind telling me what you’re doing just moping in here?” She suddenly turned to me and her dark brown almond shaped eyes burned white-hot, flared with anger and concern. You fluttered behind my eyelids. I pressed my fingers, my palms into them, and grabbed a pillow a moment later, muffled a scream of frustration and ire into it. I felt spent emotionally. I felt like I'd emptied myself into that bottle of white wine. My head was heavy. The pain at the base of my skull ebbed and throbbed, pulsated as if it had its own heartbeat and lived, symbiotic, inside of me.


“I can't stop thinking about him...,” I moaned pitifully.


It was true.


I stared at my phone and refused to unlock it and look at the unsent draft messages to you.





I tiredly suppressed thoughts about you. Still, your hazel eyes floated behind my mind, right in the periphery, barely out of focus. Funny, the more you tried to will someone away was the more prevalent they became in your life, a prominent jutting fixture. You were a wall I wanted to take a sledgehammer to. You were a rotting tooth, blackened and putrid that I wanted to excavate. Cleanly.


“I know that you can't but you have to start trying to let him go. Have you tried writing about it in a journal?” Annalise's gaze softened with sympathy and understanding as she stared at me. I must have looked like shit. I was sure there was dry spittle on the corner of my mouth from where I'd drooled after passing out on the couch last night. I didn't want to admit that the last entry had a listing of symptoms and side effects of your Vyvanse medication scribbled messily into the lines. So instead, I nursed my aching head and shuffled over to the cabinet and wrenched it open.


“I called out of work today,” I muttered, elusive, skirting the edge of the topic.


“And you drank damn near halfway through a bottle of my wine?!” Annalise tossed her head back, hair falling in glossy satin waves around her shoulders, spilling over her exposed skin, and laughed, a raw and sharp sound. Mirthless. This bitch, she was thinking to herself. She'd hung her jacket up in the closet in the small foyer at some point. She was donning a cream colored cold-shoulder top. I could see the speckled freckles dotting constellations across her shoulder. You had freckles the shape of the Auriga and Orion stars on your back. I shook the murky image of your body out of my head.


“Holy fucking shit, you need to get over him. You need to get out of this apartment and you need to go into work tomorrow morning. I can't foot the bills of your misery forever, you know,” she half-jokingly opined.


I nodded my head knowingly. I felt miserable, selfish and like crap. You breathed in the walls, hummed in my fingers, pulsed in my hot blood, and stumbled over the cliff of my lips. I had to catch you before you fell out of my mouth during casual conversations. But you were the opener and ending over every debate, every dialogue, and in every internal monologue in my life.


“I know,” was all I said.


I unlocked my phone when Annalise went over to the sink and told me she'd take “care of everything.” Annalise, so maternal, so achingly protective and loyal. My hands passed over the screen as if it were your face. She started to wash the dishes and soak them in tepid soapy dishwater. I closed my eyes and imagined you as vividly as I could, as openly and vulnerably as I did when I laid on my back and touched myself at night. The aching bittersweet sensation in the pit of my stomach, my mouth and tongue dry, my insides feeling hollowed out – an empty receptacle bin.





The first thing I touched were your eyelids, I felt them flutter open, and I saw your eyes. I saw the greenness as the light illuminated them, dappling the canopy of leaves above us. We were seated on a metal bench in a local park. The air smelled sweet and like petrichor – the scent after an hours-old rainstorm. The leaves were wet and water splattered my camo jacket like teardrops. Your eyes were a striking shade of viridian and honey-brown. Hazel. Amber. It was mostly brown until you opened a window and natural light invaded the space or you were seated directly under lamplight. I loved your eyes. They were never just “okay” as your friend James had described them one time to me during a phone conversation. They were beautiful and expressive.


Your lips moved but no sound came out. You were saying something but I couldn't make out the words. I kept calling your name, first a small whisper, then a fast jerk of your shoulder, a nudge from my hand, fingers splayed.


You were wearing the orange and white striped shirt you'd worn out to the mall with me during my trip to see you. You had on khaki Bermuda shorts. I wondered if you'd had an innumerable amount of pairs neatly folded in your drawers like Spongebob Squarepants, like you were some cartoon character. Your name became a plea and then an insistent demand and finally a scream. You were fading from me. Your pale butterscotch skin diffusing into smoke, your lips, your broad nose, your narrowed eyes, crinkling at the corners as you broke out into a toothy and widened smile. I thought I saw your mouth form the shape of my name on your lips.


You spoke to me but I heard nothing. I looked around, grasped desperately for your hand that had traced the curvature of my cheek, cupped my face, as I leaned into its warmth. I wanted to capture that sensation in a jar and make it a living and breathable thing. I wanted to open up that jar and be able to relive that perception again and again. This was like forgetting your voice. There were no voice messages on my phone where you said my name. There were no videos of you where you spoke anymore because I'd deleted them all.


I heard you call to me in the distance, barely sounding like you—a rich and dark timbre, heavy, like the sound of you singing except then it carried more weight and strength. Now it morphed into something softer, more feminine. It was Annalise. Your voice was dead I realized. I needed to get it back, to resurrect resurrect you, and lift you up and away from my mental coffin.


I had to get you back.


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