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.