I reread your emails almost daily. the way you nonchalantly consider a friendship, the way you claimed to have forgiven me for my sins and expect a free pass for yours. I analyze the way the first line is filled with rage, hate, and anger but the second line is full of love and compassion. representative of so many times when the words were spoken instead of written. the way you expressed so much anger and hate toward my lifestyle, my friends, my passions but then showed me so much love and care and grace. its almost like I reread them out of nostalgia. like I’m seeking comfort in what I already know and have experienced before. as if there is some kind of home in knowing how the story ends so I keep replaying it no matter how ugly the contents are.



a fucking joke.

I am breaking. my bones, my heart strings, my pride, my dignity, my self-respect. broken.

Healing requires one to stop playing with old wounds. for the echoes to stop. Healing requires steps forward. Healing requires  change.

I have plateaud. Stood still. Call it shock, call it fear, call it lack of motivation. Call it whatever the fuck you want but my feet are in the same exact position they were six months ago. Facing in the right direction but cemented down.

healing. maybe. if healing was stagnant of fearful.

I would rather things be ugly-busy- hard. I would rather be breaking dishes and kicking down doors, crying, screaming, pleading for help.

but I’m standing still.

poking my old wounds.