w.a.p

i hated poetry when i was little

it was confusing, it had to have rythm, at least that's what they told me. and i couldnt do it so i hated it. i didn't like it. i liked reading, a lot, but not doing it. even though i do like writing, maybe not that much. 

when i was twelve.

when everything was much easier for...

for who? 

not for me

writing makes me sick sometimes, it really can mess up with you, it really can change something on your brain, on my brain, on everyone who actually reads. through the little lines and little dots and every other thing that the words don't have, or do have. 

who was it easier for? life aint easy and it's a shitty sentence (or phrase?) that has been repeated too many times to be doing it again.

well, shit, obviously. but the life of a child should be. 

we're not here to talk about that either way.

makes me sick.

apparently i'm never getting away from him.

it does not make me lose my mind, it kinda does in a slight way, because it's been two almost three years and what the fuck? 

i don't dream usually, i don't remember what i do before or after, less in between. I hate dreaming because it makes it all too real and my mind is sick enough to not catch that, sometimes.

I don't write out of pure enjoyment, i write because i have too much on my mind and the words don't slip out of my lips like they used to, because people are sick and cruel and they hurt me. So now i barely talk.

i don't dream usually, but when i do it's the more twisted shit. The one that makes you question if you're real, if it happened actually, if it's your fault, if something inside you still has that part of you who is sick.

the thought blurs and it stands out the next second

i'm never getting away from him

i can write and cry and be angry about it, i can look back, but nothing can make me feel again like when it all happened, unfortunately. i was young and dumb and so in love that everything seemed so bright. but he wasnt. and i have to deal with that, because i'm not who he thinks i was, and he's not who i thought he would be for me. 

and no matter what i do, even if he comes back (as always), nothing can make it right. i know it won't. so i'll change, my name, my eyes, my hair, my hands, my body, and the way my words come out, and i'll be unrecognizable by the point he sees me, hopefully.

hopefully.

December 2025.