please ignore this, because i just had a tough time, and its a drought in my head, and writing floods it, and its one evil or another. ive chosen this one.

I'm sitting here, and there's this mass of emotions inside,

swirling vortexes of black and red,

and my hair's pulled into a messy side braid, because I don't have the heart to deal with it, I don't have a heart anyways. It's parked in the black, dried, faded ink on a parking ticket.

And it died with you.

But who am I talking to? 

I write about experiences, but what happens when I don't want to talk about my parents' divorce, or my mom's partner and I don't want to talk

And is this so bad?

I 'm not thinking clearly 

and i feel like 

and, as a writer,

i conceal my emotions to those actually around me,


and i twist these emotions


and i manipulate them until





they turn into something beautiful.

but i feel so ugly.

The End

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