you tucked your feet underneath yourself when you left. i never thought you’d be one to succumb, but faces warp over time. so instead i tried to starve your pain by avoiding it in my letters. (were they coherent? i have a habit of delving into frenzies of wild ramblings of nothingness when i’m nervous.) i knew i wouldn’t be the one to pull you up but still i hacked at the weeds and thought i could be a miracle.
i think the truth is that i don’t believe in myself enough. i tie my hair up and hate myself for it, i become a different person and admire myself for it. i’ve learned to cave in on myself (to hide inside the weeds) and tell myself that i’ll come out stronger on the other side.
maybe i am not all that i want to be: a dreamer / a realist, a poet / an animal, a seafarer / a land-farer, a lover / the loved.
i have trouble falling asleep at night and i think it’s because my mind likes to think about everything and nothing at the same time (especially when it’s most inconvenient).
i admire the amount of beauty our sacks of bones and blood can contain. when it leaps out i try to catch it in my outstretched hands and lock it inside, because our world is so enormously dark and we are the only beacons of light.