The Accuracy Is Painful...

The accuracy is painful...

that awesome moment when you finished reading a really good book and you see it at a store then you cunningly smile at it as if you had an affair with it.

I say this alot. It's okay to rant. To be upset. To joke to you're book friends about it. But try to remember that publishing a book alone is hard. It's an accomplishment just to get in on shelves. You don't have to love it. But you do have to tolerate it. 💜💙💜

Just because your favorite character isn't written the way you wanted to, doesn't have the storyline you imagined or isn't with the love interest you shipped them with, doesn't make the author a shitty writer.

And So I Write

You will undoubtedly find pieces of myself littered haphazardly among these pages. You will find them strewn about in every paragraph. Every Sentance. Every phrase. In every word. 

Sometimes when I need to give, pieces of myself, and I have lost all the people I throw myself away to... I turn to these pages. To lose myself to. And yet, when I know I must, I cannot. The words will hit a roadblock somewhere. My fingers itching and yet unable to find the words. 

And so I write anyways.

I write this. I write that. I write it all. Nonsense and gibberish. I write. When I have words but do not know what they have to say. Put pen to paper and find release among lost pieces of myself. Let the backlog of thoughts disperse through words and ink. Incoherent and Intangible. 

Whether or not it makes sense doesn't matter in the moment. All that matters is the words flowing through me, thrumming in my veins, making up all that I am. ANd so I make them real. Give them a place to exist so that they may grant me temporary peace, and so that I may exist without a buildup of unsaid words chocking me. Building up in my chest, filling my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

And so I write. 

I write the nothingness into something. Let the thoughts I can not articulate flow out through pieces they do not relate to but rather let their tortured vocabulary enlighten my release.   ‘

And so I write.

And leave a couple more pieces of myself folded in these pages, stained in ink. So when I am not whole, I can remind myself that once I had excess parts of myself to give. And I left them behind.

So now and then, I write.

My Soft Edges

*Eating disorder trigger warning*

All my edges have been Softened.                                                                      All my hollows filled out.                                                                                           Every sign of my pain erased.                                                                         Except of course everything that never can be.                                                       I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it.                                                                         The ache in my bones reminding me I was alive.                                                    The ache in my soul finally manifesting in a way people could see my hurt. Reminding me I was alive.                                                                                      You have to be living to be dying.                                                                         All my edges sharp edges have been softened.                                                 Little pockets of flesh pad them down. Away. Out of sight.                                          I suppose they are supposed to do the same thing with the pain.                    Maybe not though.                                                                                                  Maybe they know exactly what they're doing.                                                        The padded edges, my padded body.                                                                      My own quilted isolation chamber.                                                                          My pain isn't their problem anymore.                                                                  My cries padded down.                                                                                            Away. Out of sight.                                                                                                  All my edges have been smoothed.                                                                    It makes my pain a little easier to swallow for them.                                              All my hollows filled out.                                                                                           It makes me it a softer thing to brush aside.                                                            But me?                                                                                                                    I am still here.                                                                                                      Crying out in this padded cell.                                                                                Still cutting myself on all the sharp edges and trying to fill these deep deep hollows

As long as you exist and I exist, I will love you.

Queen of Air and Darkness

Often I do not want to leave the comfort of my pain. The familiarity of the thing slowly killing you is one not easily matched.

Bleeding Out