How can something so beautiful become so distorted and ugly?
A few months ago, I downloaded an article about why people don’t follow through. I still haven’t read it.
Several months ago, I stopped writing. I allowed attacks, accusations, and endless bombardment to stall me. To fill my head with worry that my words would be used against me during each encounter.
My words hurled as proof of my inadequacies. My lack of resilience. My failures.
I’ve decided it’s no longer my job to fear interpretations or retribution. This is my space, my sanctuary and I’m taking it back.
Grateful for friends and nonjudgmental ER staff. Feeling pretty close to my limit, but we’ll see what tomorrow holds. I can take it.
I am not a willow
I’m having a flash fiction piece published in an anthology this August. I’m excited.
What are you fucking thinking? What are you fucking doing? Who the fuck do you think you are?
I don’t know. I don’t know. Just lost.
Figure your shit out. There’s only one solution. Climb back on the crazy train. And hang on. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t know how.
I could figure it out. I could stick up for me.
Please. You can’t. You don’t understand enough to argue. I’ll tell you what to do. You’ll do it. Because we all want the same thing. And that’s for me, I mean us, to be happy.
You don’t really care. You just want to secure me. Under your thumb. Shapeless. Faceless. Lost.
You’re ridiculous. I told you you didn’t get it. You’ve just validated my point.