I don’t know what I’m doing other than existing; and sometimes existing is enough of a struggle. I feel like a blurry photo of the only consistency I know sleeping next to my achey form is a summation of my own. If that makes sense. My bones don’t feel right, my muscles are stiff and unforgiving.

“Being apart is painful”

“I missed you”

The reminders that spill from her mouth, to tell me what is real.

“Listen to your body”

Listen to your body. This disconnect is where so much of your pain is coming from. Listen to your body, for she knows more than you.

Now, (in recent days) I sound like the spunion who whispers to crystals, who I am so put off by. I have less patience for trivial bullshit spouting from friends and family and lovers.  I want to crawl into a song, and forget the weirdness that comes with everyday infringement on my consciousness.

Don’t fucking tell me what to do.

I’m sad.
But that’s okay.


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anxious 20-something in new england busy finding meaning in other peoples houses critics welcome

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