(no subject)
my formative years were spent alone, staring at carefully curated images and converting abstract ideas into things for others to read.
my thoughts and silly turns of phrase were enough company for me and had the added benefit of never needing the kind of emotional maintenance actual friendships would require. just as you can recall spats with girlfriends over stolen boyfriends or favourite sartorial advances ripped off in grade school, there are slights against me in the friendships forged with letters. betrayals and dramas revolving around a certain sentence never-quite-perfect, and wary forgivenesses granted between paragraphs.
compromises that the next piece will be a better one. and a vague reassurance to the language that 'it's not you, it's me'.
there are lines of prose i am still not on speaking terms with.
anyone who has professed any kind of romantic interest in me has known my words first. not my voice or the colour of my hair, or the way i disturb atoms around me, it's always the words.
all those who fall in love with the syllables strung together end up leaving. stamped at the bottom of a contract that exists only in my minds eye are the reasons: too difficult to manage. cold. too selfish, too negative.
my words are tricks; enigmatic flowers that draw you to a doom.
my thoughts and silly turns of phrase were enough company for me and had the added benefit of never needing the kind of emotional maintenance actual friendships would require. just as you can recall spats with girlfriends over stolen boyfriends or favourite sartorial advances ripped off in grade school, there are slights against me in the friendships forged with letters. betrayals and dramas revolving around a certain sentence never-quite-perfect, and wary forgivenesses granted between paragraphs.
compromises that the next piece will be a better one. and a vague reassurance to the language that 'it's not you, it's me'.
there are lines of prose i am still not on speaking terms with.
anyone who has professed any kind of romantic interest in me has known my words first. not my voice or the colour of my hair, or the way i disturb atoms around me, it's always the words.
all those who fall in love with the syllables strung together end up leaving. stamped at the bottom of a contract that exists only in my minds eye are the reasons: too difficult to manage. cold. too selfish, too negative.
my words are tricks; enigmatic flowers that draw you to a doom.