How dare I show my face here;
how dare I show my face anywhere.
Digging myself into a hole I may never get out of—voluntarily.
My life has always been one of search and exploration;
now it’s become one of craving and romanticism.
I told my mom the other day if my life were a movie it’d be a shitty rom-com.
One where the main character isn’t that likable because she represents every bad part of yourself you don’t want to admit. But she’s relatable, I guess.
I’ll scream it from the rooftops I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING and I think that’s okay.
I’m setting my life a blaze one day at time watching it burn to the ground.
I even throw a few twigs and bones in. Ones from my own back of course.
Breaking every single fiber and thread of my being into tiny pieces and giving them away to any person who asks or looks my way—-how dare I;
showing my face here again like I have anything new to say except that I do—
and it’s not good; not that it ever was.
Read me like the pages of a book I can’t stand to read again–rip out the pages and break my own heart I’M DYING HERE and watching my world fall apart;
and it’s all on purpose.
Art—they say. Art. Something I know nothing of. How dare I.
Oh dear reader, I’ve been here. I’ve been here crying pools of hunger waiting for my muse to arise back into my world as she destroys everything else around me.
That—-is where I’ve been.
Don’t wait up on me,
I may be gone before it’s over.
–Natalia