I’m not fine as in fine, but fine as in you don’t have to worry about me.
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I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.
I don’t know who I am. Or maybe I do know who I am and I just don’t want to be her anymore.
I used to imagine adventures for myself, I invented a life, so that I could at least exist somehow.
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I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.
I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn’t have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.
My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
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