her diary
Issue 1: volume 3: you think i care.
words ten years too late you think i care. my heart, frozen, solid, porceline, only porceline keys to touch its quiet lovely sound. i heard you the other day. was that jest? were you trying to outdo, the fact that i dropped you at the drop of a hat, for another man, because he knocked on my door first. that was just thursday. its not hatred. its indifference. and its beautiful. and powerful. and not yours. and you. all the things over years. years. years. years. years. years. years. no thank you sir. that epiphany is bittersweet. like the chocolate cocca $1.89 bar i had for lunch today. i'm not sure which taste is more. more. more is what i always wanted.
its funny. i'm not quite sure what to do with myself. all i know is my tomato basil mozzerela was good and i feel better again, and i couldnt say the same earlier, and i refuse to feel. i refuse. you dont even deserve that much. i deserve to be beaten just for letting the existence of that thought be present in my mind. where am i? where was i? was i with you? was i at home with my mother having a fight, trying to win her approval yet another time? am i on stage? trying to convince myself, yourself that i'm worth the time it takes for me to get to Bb to F# and back to C again. you enrage. and so therefore you enliven. welcome to the wonderful world of ecstacy. ecstacy in tears and anti-denial, and the clock has just-hit-zero.
Issue 1: volume 3: you think i care.
words ten years too late you think i care. my heart, frozen, solid, porceline, only porceline keys to touch its quiet lovely sound. i heard you the other day. was that jest? were you trying to outdo, the fact that i dropped you at the drop of a hat, for another man, because he knocked on my door first. that was just thursday. its not hatred. its indifference. and its beautiful. and powerful. and not yours. and you. all the things over years. years. years. years. years. years. years. no thank you sir. that epiphany is bittersweet. like the chocolate cocca $1.89 bar i had for lunch today. i'm not sure which taste is more. more. more is what i always wanted.
its funny. i'm not quite sure what to do with myself. all i know is my tomato basil mozzerela was good and i feel better again, and i couldnt say the same earlier, and i refuse to feel. i refuse. you dont even deserve that much. i deserve to be beaten just for letting the existence of that thought be present in my mind. where am i? where was i? was i with you? was i at home with my mother having a fight, trying to win her approval yet another time? am i on stage? trying to convince myself, yourself that i'm worth the time it takes for me to get to Bb to F# and back to C again. you enrage. and so therefore you enliven. welcome to the wonderful world of ecstacy. ecstacy in tears and anti-denial, and the clock has just-hit-zero.