there are parts of my body only books have entered. there are pains only words can feel.
sometimes i sob for hours straight but one good laugh and i forget why i was grieving.
i've found the best angles to hug my pillow. sometimes in sleep, it becomes a warm body. sometimes i lay soft kisses. i'm not proud of it. i'm more needy than all yesterdays in my sleep.
everyday i convince myself three things: i replied. i did so much. i did nothing.
my childhood pictures are so queer. interesting?
i'm almost always thinking about what my responsibility is towards dreams that are not my own.
have you experienced breathing and there was no air? like there's only co2 under the blanket covering your face except its broad daylight and its oxygen you are breathing? did you ever tell anyone?
on days i take a good shit, everyone hears about it.
i've moved and moved and moved. i've been moving every six to eights months since 2015 and i'm exhausted.
fucking can be good. sometimes.
not fucking is empowering. most of the time.
i've come so far with letting go.
i have a long way to go.
there are some things i can't afford to let go.
i must insist on them staying.
to do lists are truly the worst for my self esteem.
this is probably some drama nerd shit but we're all the fucking same.
stories of people living and dying, dying and living are my only hope for survival.
thank you for sharing yours with me.
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