justice, change, and everyone is wrong.

the story of a woman trying to find love, happiness, and a salaried job in the 21st century.

the end.

my life has nothing to do with me unfolding, it races out in all directions a tent without intent i don't grasp at the reigns my hands are up in the sky i feel my heels lift, antigravity, and glory and guts and breeze fuck this intercourse of oxygen and mitochondria pressing at my seems

preservation

she bought anti-aging creme while contemplating suicide.

just/jəst/

i don't want an epilogue.

I'm not the girl that parents like. I'm not sure if that's who I want to be or if I even care. No I definitely care. How am I supposed to decide what kind of person I am? Or is that not a state that can be altered? People change themselves all the time, but isn't that due to a series of events or a predisposition? I'm not drifting away, I'm tugging on the cord. If only I knew what my lowest point was so I could see the end coming.

most of my life i was discouraged from expressing myself and exploring my own thoughts and feelings. now that i've been told i can think properly, i find i cannot think at all.

all my insecurities have trapped me. the doubt consumes every face i encounter, melting away kind flesh for demons.

i'm not sure if this is a sickness or if this is what the world is truly. am i the bad guy? do i gut and hollow out every relationship to feed my fears?

i don't know if i have ever truly reflected upon anything. i cannot tell what is a facade and what is real and tangible and can be investigated further. maybe i've questioned things so much i've gouged a hole right through anything worth preserving, squeezed the life right out.


can i keep mining? or will i be buried in the displacement of my search.