we walk the plank with strangers.
You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
Not being perfect hurts.
We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.
…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.