As I write this, things are not right. As I write this, things are amazing.
Things are in flux constantly and I can’t help but feel that they will continue to be until I kill that voice in my head that reminds me that I’m no good. That everything I’ve gathered I don’t deserve.
But I do deserve it, don’t I?
I am a good person with a wicked past that was fed to me by wicked hands.
In general, I can tame those thoughts, but sleep doesn’t come easy for me.
Sleep doesn’t come at all sometimes. I’m tired and in a dream-like state most days.
I am ugly.
I am sexy.
I am not correct.
I cannot fathom how anyone can love me.
These are the thoughts that plague my head.
I have lost weight supposedly, but I’m still me. I am still not ok. I am still me.
Regardless of how much of me is gone, the same amount of shit remains inside me.
It is Saturday night and I can’t help but feel a bit old sitting here writing this.
I am indoors smoking while my man sleeps.
I am insecure and sad and a bit overwhelmed.
I am you, and you are me.
Summer is coming to Los Angeles, and I am hopeful that we will survive it.
I am hopeful that our love is strong enough to endure the cruel cruel scorching hell that becomes my apartment.
Well, OUR apartment.
I have died on the cross in this apartment.
Created whole worlds, attempted knitting, made cupcakes.
He is afraid that his love of baseball will be the end of us.
But the sounds of baseball chatter and lingo makes me feel whole.
He reminds me of everything that was good and safe in my childhood.
He will never know the impact his essence has had on me.
Sometimes those things are better left unsaid, sometimes those things are better left for you and you alone.