i have a feeling that in the next fifty women you undress, all you will be able to see is that they are not, and could never be me.
the clouds are as angry as i am.
my worst nightmare is being stuck in this terribly boring town doing something mediocre.
it is now december, and i have been feeling this way since july. that i am an impostor in my own life.
i miss you like orpheus misses eurydice.
i’d never been in a room so tense. then everyone came back broken.
i was a precocious child. it’s a curse.
i’m losing myself. can’t you tell?
i didn’t think the depth of my pain was visible from the outside until my mother told me she hated my sad eyes. that my eyes were always so joyful and now they appear as small voids to something darker.
as the dust settles, all i see is a mutilated version of who i used to be.
you must’ve been mine for lifetimes. i must’ve taught you how to read, or ride a bike, or cook, or run. we must’ve met on the streets of ancient rome, or in passing jericho, or selling you a car in london, or teaching you to fight in sparta, or closing your tomb in egypt. i must’ve been your person every single lifetime.