I have a bad feeling.

My gut tells me things. 

It mostly just tells me when I'm full and when I'm hungry. 

Either that or when I'm depressed. My gut has a way of telling me that something is off. 

It has a way of telling me that I screwed up. Or that I'm about to. And it's telling me that right now, as those numbers fly through my head. 

The stars are telling me that miscommunications are abundant this month. 

This much is evident. 

In fact it seems like there have been miscommunications over the past 456 days, 25 hours, 55 minutes and 35 seconds, if I recall correctly. 

Which I probably don't because I don't remember anything. 

I don't even remember to buy Flowers. 

I don't even remember to play dead. 

Or to play happy. 

But I'm getting better at that last one. 

My gut is telling me that the sweat on my palms is the tears of my hands, sobbing because they're so nervous to simply smile and wave. Grit my teeth and try not to wince. 

My gut is having a conversation with my voice box, telling it not to say anything to the eardrums that belong to the innocent man's body. 

But my gut sometimes has multiple personality disorder. 

It's also telling my voice box to yell. To scream. Telling my fists to clench up and fling itself in the direction of the throat that belongs to the not so innocent woman. 

It's telling my eyes to stop crying, because it was only 5 months. 

5 months isn't really that long. 

But in two hours, the wall I built for the other four 180 days, 23 hours, eighteen minutes, and approximately God knows how many seconds, because it was all a blur. And I don't know if that's because of my wet eyes, or the billions of thoughts running past the open shutters of my brain, it all just looked like a colorless blob, 

In two hours, that wall was torn down. Because my gut told my brain to relieve the guards of duty, because this one is special. 

Because this one makes you happy. 

And my gut was wrong. 

My gut isn't usually wrong, but when it is, it leaves my brain to do the thinking, and my brain overdoes his job. 

My brain likes to tell me that my lips are free to move, and my tongue to contort those words it's been dying to say. 

I wish my brain weren't so damn smart. 

I wish my gut would get it together again, and tell my brain to tell me what it's feeling this time. 

Because I don't want to relieve the guards of duty again, and have my gut be wrong. 

So gut, do me a favor. Speak to me. 

And not the kind of speaking you do when I'm hungry. 

The kind of speaking when you know there's something good lying ahead. Because I need it. We all need it.