Well, babe, I’ve been let go
I am still learning how to let go.
My hands are so tired.
The people we once were,
the you I once knew,
evaporate into the rearview.

If you refuse to drive
hell, if you won’t even touch the wheel
we’ll keep speeding toward something too dark,
something neither of us can name.
I don't want that for us.

If not for me, then for you.
If I take my foot off the gas,
we go nowhere.
You said, let go.
But there is no way I can let go
without leaving you behind.

We don’t have to crash.
Babe, I’m tired.
We’ve driven too far past the last exit to turn around.
Skidded across the median more times than I’d like.
I don’t mind the potholes,
the chipped paint,
or the blurred lines.

but if we pull over,
I’m not getting back behind the wheel

maybe if life moved forward (if i moved forward) then i would find someone better than the boy before. mercury comes with misunderstandings - at least that’s what google is telling me - so maybe you couldn’t tell how much i really liked you (maybe the signs i was giving you weren’t enough and maybe the signs you were giving me were too much.) how much i thought you were the one. how much i dreamed about you (ashamedly, still do). how you could have asked me to prom with a big sign and how i would jump into your arms and scream "yes! of course i’ll go with you." and i even imagined us breaking up and me storming into my room while my mom tried to comfort me and how i cried to olivia rodrigo because i want to relate to breakup songs. i want to feel the heartbreak and see if it's as bad as everyone says it is. that’s not selfish, right? the want (the need, if we’re being real) for you to rip my heart out of my body and shatter my insides until all that’s left of me is broken glass and blood that spells out "see, mom? i like boys afterall." i would look down at the proof that i am lovable and turn my sobs into smiles because i survived the war and am left standing (just without a heart, the will to live, and the haunting realization that you will never love me the way you never did).

non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.

the great thing about Bic-Round Stic M is that the ink doesn't bleed through the paper.

singing all day - will the willing to write songs and produce a great debut album.

where do i stand? anywhere—

where are you?

babe…

why must you ask such trivial questions?

then again, i grapple with an external validation problem,

curbed by a body—my own diary.

andy denson's diaries, tales—sweet.

thoughts flutter like moths to a flame,

yearning for the light of recognition,

yet finding solace in the shadows.

the pages absorb my musings,

ink drying without a trace.

It seems like a terrible peace,
How the waves drown and roar like a beast.

I imagine myself in its darkest depths
Taking all these deep, deep breaths.

Its creatures lie hidden to the naked eye
As if waiting for a reply.

But yet, I find in the treacherous sea-
A place called home, for you and me.

You try your best, you really do-
To be the friend anyone can run to.
But, it seems you are just a spare,
And no one is there to care.

When you look at me,
What do you see?

Someone calm and composed?
Who dares not speak ablaze.

No, 'tis false.
For deep inside of me,
is a anger so wild and deep.

It consumes my mind and thoughts,
I wish I didn't feel at all.

I do not want to give in to the fire
A prayer I lifted to Heaven at dawn,
"Save me from my wretched, wicked heart."

validation is like drugs. the first time i got validated, i felt like i was floating. i was above cloud 9 just by someone telling me “you’re my friend” in the third grade. not best friend. not my soulmate. friend, and i couldn’t stop my smile from spreading. feeling needed by someone who doesn’t actually need you is a fantastic feeling. that’s why my heart races when anybody invites me to hang out. they didn’t need attention - didn’t need my attention, specifically -  but the syringe filled with proof that i am a fun person to be around sticks directly into my veins and stays there until the medicine runs out and i no longer have the serotonin for those around me. the euphoria and i dwindle, and i grow distant, because it’s become evident that i wasn’t needed for your journey; i was just a pitstop. someone who could give you some laughs but doesn’t have enough advice to listen to your problems. i can tell you your dress looks nice but i don’t have enough courage to defend you in a fight. i can remember your favorite color but you didn’t remember me enough to resurface old photos of us at fifteen and smile at the thought of our memories. i’ve been down this road before. trust me, i have. i want to be seen, but not to be sorry for. don’t look at my past and defy it as my present. i’m not the lonely kid who sat on swingsets and barely had the strength to push herself. i’m not the little girl who had no one to twirl me during daddy-daughter dances. i am still the girl who wishes things were different, but you don’t need to know that. so please, tell me that i’ve changed. tell me that you’re proud. tell me that everything is going to be okay, and that i’m worthy to stay the night. that i won’t become another pitstop.