tantrum
this interface is really fucking with me but hello emptiness this sort of still feels like home.
now where to begin. i suppose i’m tantrum again leaving another city another school another press trying as always to make something real
which is the problem of course. why can’t i just be content with what i have. why must it all burn (even if everything’s a little bit prettier when it does). why have i been alone for so many years (but i know the answer to that, all too well).
the punishment for scribble doubt is bears. but it is not limited to bears. as it turns out. as it bloody well turns out
i logged in because i suddenly remembered three of my interests (“anything off a mirror”) and wanted to use them in a poem. i am of course fairly horrified by a lot of my profile at this point but it feels disrespectful to the dead to change it.
(it’s me. i’m the dead).
pretty little nothing place i loved you and i loved everyone here and i wish i’d done a better job of holding on i wish my hands were never fists
but you know. “they looked like such strong hands.” no one ever makes it home. “hands that could not open once they closed.”
is how the line goes
i’d do just about anything to bring everyone back even for a day