(no subject)
It’s funny now how the situation’s turned around; who’s mad at who, who’s let it go, who I’m going worry about vs. who gives a fuck about me. And/Yet he’s the one I’m making cookies with hard-boiled eggs for one line of conversation running though my head that I_can’t_forget, but can’t talk about either. An’ every time I open my mouth my breath catches as if God himself was keeping me from saying three words. Three words like the knowledge of anything somebody’s ever said about you and who’s betraying what trust from who? (What would Judas do?) And what a convenient way to look at things when you have seven days to see people as they are or ever. Picture yourself not running away; staying put like a child on Adderall, like a monk on fire. Like seven nights of sorting love in and out of stone heart-crates because people need the same thing differently. And giving your... self/best/all means nothing
If it’s behind everyone’s backs.
If it’s behind everyone’s backs.