it’s funny how much i worry about the formatting of the things i write. it’s always way more than the content. i switch to a new paragraph with the intent to make what i’m saying easier to digest because for so long i was told that what i said was acid. 

i’m sick of noticing the faults in my own feelings and the act of trying to make art out of the things i want to say, so i’ll do my best right now to continue unedited. i’m angry. i’m angry at myself for moving forward so much and then letting myself backslide. i’m angry that i can never have faith in what i say.

i always have to ask someone if what i feel is okay, if what i said was okay, if how i made someone feel was my responsibility. i want to move on from that. i’ve spent so much of my time worried about how people will take the things i say. i’ve tried to say them in ways that make sense—i’ve spent so much time biting my tongue that it would feel calloused if that was literal.

even now i am judging my choice of words. “biting my tongue”, “calloused”, etc...what a fucked up attempt to say something. there’s nothing poetic about trying to speak through metaphors.

i’m sick of my own writing. there’s nothing fluid about any of this. so drink up all of this sawdust. i’ve ground up trees and sucked the life out of living things.

all i’m left with is this.