beautiful apocalypse

‘I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.

in the attic of her body she kept secrets she couldn’t speak about until too drunk to keep them, would whisper “i’m dying” right before you fell asleep beside her.   she kept herself tidy. acted whole. made jokes that sometimes settled wrong, but made jokes until her tongue was numb.    there was always a very small delay between something happening and her smile, as if she had to remind herself to pull the strings, and it was agonizing.    she didn’t like the shadows inside her. they tasted of dust and too many nightmares. she didn’t like pouring them into other people’s hands. it was her burden to bear.