bit my tongue; didn't know if i wanted anyone to know if i was happy or sad, or a little unsure, which is mostly, usually, the case. the problem with approaching the core of things, is that there is the point of arrival. the light & gravity pulls, and then you're centered and immersed. how is there clarity when you're deep in, when you're pushing for distance, so you can see all the rhythms that are clear to see?

one safety for another, and i don't like the vocabulary, which i am stripping down, the way a sick child strips open her skin, to find something not in her skin. it's not in the words. ink lets me down because the writer in me is at a loss for cohesive substance, because i want to paint the way i paint, free and unthinking, but sometimes i fall into the canvas, and i don't want to bind myself into something i can't rip myself out of.

so many words to spin around the same concept.

i had a dream last night, and you were in it, neither fantasy nor romanticized archetype. it was neither beautiful, nor ugly, but rather, literally existential. dreamscapes, they shift, and then i am again, a mute child on shifting ground, rather than some floating, amused god beyond all this humanity, which i like, but makes me sick, because mortality is like that.

eating is mortality, and singing is mortality, and fucking, is definitely mortality. i hate this helplessness, and this narcissism which stems from those ugly, childhoods spent hiding low under beds and in the dark corners of the cool insides of work desks.

sometimes at work, little hidden shards of broken cups get caught on my knees and shins, and it takes me back to the underbelly of beds, & floors littered with splinters of broken baby bottles. 

glass comes out. i never liked the idea of making myself bleed because there were so many sharp things about already. if you dance close enough, nothing cuts you. you never have to run if you don't let a single thing touch you.

i tell myself i am not this girl, but i see her so well. there's nothing i can do for her, this thing that exists in some dusty room in my mind, in an old, falling apart house from decades ago. i left, and she stayed, lingering in my old sheets.