I just finished a book.
No. I didn't write it. I wish I had. But I wouldn't want that to be inside my head.
Such A Pretty Face - Cathy Lamb.
It cut to my very core. And I don't really have friends I can talk to about it. Or family. My best friend and sister moved to Baltimore to be with a man. And I can't say anything because I almost moved to Utah for a man. And then I almost moved to Michigan for another. Hello, hypocrisy.
I don't have anything to say. I just had to say all this nothing to get it out of me.
For some stupid reason, I find myself in love with nothing other than sadness. Trust me, I'm not proud.
It is so cold today, has been all week. Usually October still holds the heat of the setting sun of summer. It's usually a disappointment from when i was a kid and seasons were definite. But this one is right. It feels much later in the year. and the smells...
I open the windows and I'm fifteen again.
not ashamed of who I am
but maybe a little sorry for
who I was before I stopped the
facade, hiding in who you wanted
me to be, that porcelain image in
your bed, in your head, in your beautiful eyes...
I was something else before
I realized that I'm not waiting
for someone to rescue me,
I'm just waiting for me to
sometimes, I feel claustrophobic inside my own body.
sometimes, I wish I could open the door to find myself standing there,
have a drink,
hear what I'm thinking from my point of view.
open the door, "hey, been trying to meet you.
there must be
a devil between us."
it's funny how
into a thousand tiny pieces
can feel so good.
a chapter finished,
to start a new line.