You thought you knew me last year. Sometimes I think that I am rather selfish but then I wonder if that is really true. I think of myself as closed off, mysterious even, on my own.
I am so open to emotion that I let it guide my words like a freight train. I’m sorry that all this time you thought that you knew who I was. I feel drained of all of the things I have ever loved, things. My faucet has turned off completely in the midst of loving nothing and nothing in particular.
The ink smells dry on my wet palms, and I wonder if you know what I mean by that. There is nothing worth living for when all that lives for you lives for your physicality, the way you move.
Believe me when I say I am singular, temperamental, entirely myself and myself and myself.