i. it is so much easier to write rage to write anger to write agony than all of those fluff-feelings of joy-love-peace-hope and i have a truth for you and pain is not sweet and we always want to turn blood into paint for a masterpiece as if our suffering is fair trade for our passion and and and—
ii. my mouth is a wolf’s maw full of sharp and bone and hunger and i wonder what satisfied means and i wonder how you dare speak to me like you know me like you know anything about me like fact and truth are equals like absolute power is anything but the most concentrated form of weakness like—
iii. 9-year-old me listens with such innocence, such naivety, such sickening hope as i tell her a tale of redemption and happy endings but now the world is burning and people are dying and i am being ****** into a stagnant role under the title maturity and civil responsibility and if this is growing up then give me back the youthful fury of my teenage years where i believed that my voice meant something and my actions made a difference and that i deserved my righteous indignation at the world trying to condition me into using my will and my desire and my skill and my love for the sake of everything and everyone but myself while i try to beat my quivering into the shape of something of use.
iv. my hands are shaking but i will take the fire itself into my hands if that is what it takes for you to listen.