.

i hate how the only way i can write anything remotely poetic these days is by writing about either my trauma or the most depraved stuff known to man

can you genuinely love damaged goods

not my dad casually mentioning that his grandparents were first cousins i'm gonna throw up lolzies

i'm so mixed i have white european blood as well as jewish blood. i have conquistador blood and mayan blood. i will always be a walking contradiction. my mother tells me she feels like she failed in raising me but maybe this is just the best version i can be. just like some aren't cut out to be parents, some girls aren't cut out to be daughters. my abuelita will keep calling every year on my birthday to tell me that diosito looks out for me and to give her blessings and every year i will feel guilty answering the phone, searching for words constantly. because i'm losing fluency in spanish but also because maybe there just aren't words for what i want to say. i speak multiple languages, have tried to learn others, am still learning some. and i haven't found the right words in any language. there's guilt in suffering and there's guilt in happiness and there's guilt in feeling numb and the only goddamn thing without guilt might be the period of your life before you know to refer to yourself as "i". or "ik" or "yo" or any word that will ever have the same meaning.

i keep looking in the mirror as if it'll ever do anything other than look back at me with the same hollow look. maybe if my brain was as hollow as my stare i'd feel better. anyway. the hague will keep being corrupt as shit, the market square in m'burg is still filled with fruit and herring every thursday and everything will keep on being the same, just variations of the same shit for decades and decades and decaying might just be growth, but in the wrong direction. i'm almost an adult now but i think the added weight might just break me if i'll still feel like this in a year. fake it till you make it or alternatively till you break it (beyond repair).

"you said you were done, well how done? 
          because you wrote 'don't forget' 
          on your arm when you were drunk 
          and i got mad at the fact 
          that you had to remind yourself at all 
          i got mad when i shouldn't have 
          it's just that i got so scared 
          that you had already forgot 
          but now i'm looking for a time machine 
          or anyone who can justify why i've been gone 
          or anyone to lie to me 
          they could say that they understand the things i've done 
          but neal said that i don't need him 
          i want to believe that i really don't need him 
          i know that neal said that i don't need him 
          but i don't believe him 
          but i can't wait until i see your face 
          and my brain thinks that it's looking at a stranger 
          i can't wait until i see your face 
          and my brain feels nothing 
          i'll feel nothing"
          
          /lyr
          
          - "you wrote don't forget on your arm" by flatsound

currently (re-)watching incendies if that tells you anything about my mental state

"In the back of my mind / I killed you / And I didn't even even regret it / I can't believe I said it / But it's true"

man, sure wish i was actually as good of a person as everyone thinks i am

imagine hallucinating your dead ex standing in the corner of the room </3
          lmao that shit's embarrassing 
          anyway stream mitski \m/