I spent some of the best years of my life slaving over an image that meant nothing. I spent all my good energy on bad people. I have been so wasteful.
My mother told me my self esteem was low
I told her that the world has made me hard
That the world has made souvenirs of all the birds’ feathers, and all the rabbits’ feet, and all the fur of everything soft and spotted.
The world has turned my smile into a novelty, some gift shop trinket, bought and sold and put on a shelf or in a box for a rainy day.
My mother says “I think there is something angry in you”.
She is right.
Rumbling my stomach and jumbling my head, the world has made me hate.
I am brittle, stale toffee left in that old crystal dish that everyone neglects at their grandma’s house.
I am rusted, wrought iron. But not the pretty kind they craft things out of.
I am callous, like mechanics’ palms, and factory feet.
Hard, like the world has made me; harsh like my mother’s words.
Anonymous ask : "Where do you live now? - An old friend"
Back home. Az now.
I don’t know why I am such a disgustingly jealous person. It’s unfortunate.
I long to go back to the time when I hadn’t lost anything
Anonymous ask : "May I ask you something? Something I shouldn't be."
Sure? Go for it.
I am really good at coming up with endings.
In the most literal and figurative sense.
My head hurts from crying so much.
I can’t sleep from thinking too much.
I have broken so many times but never this way.
Never like this.
Never in such a way that leaves me half severed, just enough for you to bruise me but never puncture my skin. Like a surface wound that you can recreate at any time, one that doesn’t cut deep but never quite heals.
You are holding on and letting go at the same time and I honestly do not know which is worse.