I'm back--who knows for how long
I've put breath and sweat and tears into projects that do not serve me
I am tired, my stomach overripe with angry, boiling resentment
Thick citrus, biting my insides with bubbling teeth
I left for long enough that the "Community Leader" tag was dropped from my autobiography
I can't apologize for being busy, because half of it was not my fault
I gave enough time to projects I loved and enough frustration to endeavors I didn't
to explain myself, especially when I wasn't particularly invested, even when I told myself I could be
I finished a performance I cannot help but commend myself for---it set the pace for the new string of my life
I guess I could weave it in intricate patterns, build myself a stable quilt of time and experience
But I'd much rather let it spin out behind me, drape itself on the wind, follow me through open windows and snake itself
under closed doors, circle around my wrists and pull me taught against a swirling, toiling fabric of the unforeseen
Could I sit back and write for hours like I used to?
Would my new and improved Self be caught dead pouring her shit onto the internet?
Aren't prose and poetry supposed to be pretty?
Why is this crazy bitch gagging on about her life?
She's gay, right? Something in water, probably. Only fruity chicks still write in diaries.
Yeah, she would. And, anyway, it's a journal. Also, I'm bi, not gay. Christ. Oh, wait, should I stop using the Lord's name in vain?
I'm going to hell, regardless, who cares?
There's a position here I'm not supposed to reveal, either, that I'm supposed to hide behind a layer of BS and teenage angst---but I'm aware of
mine, thanks, and I'd like to just remind everyone I
don't
like
hormones
And they are currently pulling me away from the things I'd rather do, like, for instance, spill my shit on the internet.
I curse a lot.
I'm not sorry.
I'll stick around for a while. I missed this. Wave me out the door when I leave, though. I'll be back. Who knows for how long, though.
I've put breath and sweat and tears into projects that do not serve me
I am tired, my stomach overripe with angry, boiling resentment
Thick citrus, biting my insides with bubbling teeth
I left for long enough that the "Community Leader" tag was dropped from my autobiography
I can't apologize for being busy, because half of it was not my fault
I gave enough time to projects I loved and enough frustration to endeavors I didn't
to explain myself, especially when I wasn't particularly invested, even when I told myself I could be
I finished a performance I cannot help but commend myself for---it set the pace for the new string of my life
I guess I could weave it in intricate patterns, build myself a stable quilt of time and experience
But I'd much rather let it spin out behind me, drape itself on the wind, follow me through open windows and snake itself
under closed doors, circle around my wrists and pull me taught against a swirling, toiling fabric of the unforeseen
Could I sit back and write for hours like I used to?
Would my new and improved Self be caught dead pouring her shit onto the internet?
Aren't prose and poetry supposed to be pretty?
Why is this crazy bitch gagging on about her life?
She's gay, right? Something in water, probably. Only fruity chicks still write in diaries.
Yeah, she would. And, anyway, it's a journal. Also, I'm bi, not gay. Christ. Oh, wait, should I stop using the Lord's name in vain?
I'm going to hell, regardless, who cares?
There's a position here I'm not supposed to reveal, either, that I'm supposed to hide behind a layer of BS and teenage angst---but I'm aware of
mine, thanks, and I'd like to just remind everyone I
don't
like
hormones
And they are currently pulling me away from the things I'd rather do, like, for instance, spill my shit on the internet.
I curse a lot.
I'm not sorry.
I'll stick around for a while. I missed this. Wave me out the door when I leave, though. I'll be back. Who knows for how long, though.
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