thursday
"I need you to talk to me about how it’s okay to feel miserable and sad, I need you to tell me “that’s just the artist in you, baby.” I need you to tell me not to make myself so sick with anxiety. I need you to tell me that my theory “only strangers can see the real me” isn’t true. Tell me you see the real me, please? Tell me I have a purpose, tell me I have a name. I had a name. I can’t remember it, fuck, I’m going to take another cold shower and hope by the time I get back to this sweaty stinking bed that I’ll have figured out the key to happiness. I need you to tell me that it’s not in a name, it’s not in a place. Not a ribbon to this typewriter, not a glass of red wine. Happiness. It’s in a solid thudding organ that I know is inside me, but I can only feel when I’m laying on your hairy chest. My heart echoing off your body back into my eardrum. I need you."