more detritus from before the end

Let tomorrow be good.

does he love me?
so many doubts. do I annoy him with my neediness, my uncertainty, my self-justification, my mood swings and constant need of affirmation?
in the end, the question may boil down to whether or not i am worth loving.
listening to the rain…
will he call? doubt it.
if he does, will he want to see me?
am i in good enough shape for that?
spilling open is a messy business.
but i’m a mess anyways.

i miss you, and i’m a loser without you.

break me apart, finger by finger, rib by rib.
(the origin of love)

undo me
(it’s so easy to do)

razor blades and tongues

waiting for rain and fog and cool air and tall trees and sublime nakedness.

what will happen if i get pregnant?

your future will not resemble what you are thinking of now.

that doesn’t mean it’ll be worse; it also doesn’t mean that you’ll be a writer and otherwise keep your self-respect.

the thing i fear most is wasting my life, living day to joyless day knowing that i’m just taking up oxygen.

i have to make my life have meaning no matter what happens.

please. help me be the hero of my own story.

god.

i hope i’m not pregnant.

i’m 18 years old.
i’m an adult now.
shit…

10 and the phone is quiet.

why does this always happen?
muse sleepover vs. him
goddamn

“motivated forgetting”

God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from the ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
til one day it cracks open.
– Rumi

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