journal · prose


Exactly who I used to be was standing right in front of me. I watched and wondered how many hills I had climbed in the wrong direction. Like writing backwards on the page, erasing my face and creating a new name. But they will never stop shouting my faults to the world. I’m still due for another fucked up turn or two before I get it right. And another night goes by where I just want to smoke and emotionally die. Yet another paragraph with seamless seams. I’m torn and wish the tears were streaming, so I know that I am real. And my own. Not just another with a paper and pen, wasting space, time and words on something unattainable. But how they flow like liquid flame and give these blank lines the personality to be… more than me. More than I ever could be. In a moment.


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