i am an

evil, awful, angry

person.

my rage sits in my chest,

and follows my fingertips' wake.

stockpiled and stuffed away,

set aside for a rainy day.

as if every morning,

i get closer to

inevitably imploding.

i am an

evil, awful, angry

person.

but—

i am deserving,

of time and of space,

of patience and of grace,

because i am human.

i am an

evil, awful, angry

person.

but aren't we all?

we say, "let he

who is without sin,

cast the first stone."

but spend our days coveting pebbles.

☆☆ in 1996, Bridget Jones lamented about the seduction of the informality of messaging mediums. clearly, we haven’t learnt much since ☆☆

| I Can’t Be Trusted to Text Appropriately | KMBG |

Are your words real 

if your tongue never forms them? Does it count 

if the air doesn’t vibrate with the thrill of it all? 

Of us. Of the game we’ve made of deceit.

Tell me there’s such a thing as platonic arousal.

Placate me. Sorry, what I meant was fuck you. 

I think you feel similarly about me, wishfully. 

I don’t think we know how to be. We’ve always lived 

and died on messy boundaries and still, every now

and then we splash paint around, leaving handprints in lieu 

of responsible lines. If God's a foreman, 

he's running out of tolerance for our claims of ignorance. 

Each time, our skin stains faster. We know better now, and less 

of each other. Are they my words now? 

Sure, it’ll only be a few years before 

one of us digs our fingernails in and begins 

to chip away at new cracks in that same ridiculous paint. Again. 

_Author. M

In Love W Beige 🤎🤎

the traffic lights change even if no one’s waiting for them there’s music on the radio even if no one’s tuning in it all goes on life goes on