deeply deeply miss childhood and i wasn't even that happy

anyone else grieving & mourning & lamenting & kicked apart by nostalgia & going silently about their lives?

i miss myself

please never stop talking passionately about the things you love

My mother says I have such a soft heart that some people don’t know how to hold it without hurting me. I want to tell her that love is why mold is growing inside of me turning my bones tender and squeezable like a rotting peach you forgot was on the counter. And I don’t think anyone ever meant to hurt me, I don’t think they thought about me enough to try. My ninth grade English teacher use to call me a little weirdo. She noticed that I could see the world differently, that I could label almost everything unintentional. Like a payer off someone’s open mouth after a sin. I always say please breathe me in, consume me, even if they spit me back up seconds later.

I can’t write about anything other than spiraling, dark circles and oranges, the way my lungs swallow water even in droughts, skinny dipping, strawberry moons, wine and bread, bread soaking up wine, a cracked open chest, eulogies and apologies, hunger, blood, primal instincts, hand picked flowers, god, man, violence, grocery shopping, enemies and friends and how they go hand in hand, kissing, discovering, unearthing, being human, warm ovens, missed calls, fine lines, softness…. Soft spots and something like fingerprint intends on the heart.