i’m sitting under my covers writing this & thinking “my handwriting looks ugly” but then i remembered that this will be typed later so it won’t really.
but i care about details, details that fill this paper, details filling my head.
to knick away at someone’s details like a scab you really want to pick at, but your mother told you “no”, that little desire to know & feel more, gnawing at your skin.

it’s scary, ya know. scary, psyching myself out each time, i hate messing up yet i always do.
things get cloudy, so i can’t see where i’m going or what to really say.
but then those clouds, so start to fade and i’m closer to the ground than i thought i was