I don't know why I'm writing this I don't feel anything right now but I'll spread the words out like jam and do my best to portray something.  My mother's speech was engraved into my bones and I feel it everytime I take a step. It's beautiful. Sometimes it hurts. My fathers gaze has pierced my veins and I've never felt a stronger sting then his pity. I, am idifferent to the lust that surrounds me. I am indifferent to the words that try to grasp me and I am indifferent to the gazes that try to catch me. I feel empty and unlatched. It's a good feeling. I feel like water, I feel like clouds. Most of all I feel like a pen waiting to be picked up. I've got nowhere to be and I'm waiting for someone to show me a place to gather a few stones and watch the leaves for awhile. It's not the best way, but what is? I'm drunk. I'm gonna go back and fix my grammar and then I'm gonna post this. It was an experiment. I didn't let myself backspace and I tried typing as fast as I can so my thoughts may ramble and my thumb may slip....

I haven't been myself.
I haven't bled in two months.
I haven't wrote in over a month.
I haven't exercised in three weeks.
I haven't picked up a book in two weeks.
I haven't had a panic attack in five days.
I haven't slept in three days.
I haven't cried in two days.
I haven't missed you in...

it's like trying to think the glass is half full and who will be there when you fall again how the windows are locked and the floor has been burnt and how soon until this is my past and how long