10.11.23, or things I'm too scared to tell my mom about
I don't know how to tell my mom - or my psychiatrist, for what it's worth - that I didn't make it. they paint me stronger than I am. I'm a faded blue tint.
I was born during spring, which translates into autumn in the proper hemisphere. properly speaking, I was born in the beginning of death. I think it makes more sense. I don’t see myself a particularly blooming person.
looking for a tree to seat under, I want to mend with the shade. no one will see me if I go with the leaves, and they pierce through my hair and hide within. I want to hide within too. I write about it. I read it aloud.
I think I'm in love with his writing. I want to drink it straight. I want to tie it around my neck. visceral vices, choke on his words. he speaks of smells, he talks of tasting. somebody else's taste. there's always somebody else, is there not?
I'm not even fully involved, only half-interested half the time. it just sucks a tiny bit. I'll get over it. I do it all the time.
I need to speak. mother texts and duty calls. I'll bullet point and not shoot. wish me luck.