My throat is a bottleneck, in which all my words get crushed.
There are many things that I mustn’t acknowledge. The words still try to come out – they all try to escape at once and get stuck to the roof of my mouth or cling to the tip of my tongue. I can’t say a word because I have too much to say about people who either can’t or don’t want to speak to me.
The words I use are the ones that other people don’t like to hear. I have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the worst time. I don’t think. I think too much.
I’m losing my fucking mind. You mean nothing. You mean everything.
Take me away.
I tore up most of my notes. I still have questions, but I no longer feel the need to ask them. I don’t think I’m allowed to ask them. I’m being kept in the dark, left out in the cold, with only tattered paper ribbons for company.
This is somehow the story of my life. Thank you for reading it.
The ambivalence of ‘I hope…’ vs. ‘I don’t care…’ and the need for repression/expression. I want to tell you everything I find too painful to talk about. I don’t give a fuck but I’m “hopelessly hopeful”.
The word ‘hope’ used to also mean a feeling of trust.
I wash my mouth out with hope.