how tragic it is, that my own brain poisons itself.
“aliza, i’m in love with you”
“oh you poor, poor boy”
just a reminder: the mistress, the husband, and the wife all believed they had found their true love.
desire is such an ugly thing. pure want disguised in wandering fingertips, fingers laced in hair, and glazed over eyes.
sorrow is on my tongue. i wonder if you can taste it.
though i am a young, privileged white woman, with nothing to complain of, sobs rack my body for years on end. my picket fence and shaggy dog can’t save me from this ugly world.
i was a precocious child. it’s a curse.
i’ll pray to little orange bottles or stuffy waiting rooms if it meant you would just get better.
i am so terribly sad. someone must be watching the movie of my life for a good cry.