So you did grow up to be Virginia Woolf

Lately, I’ve started clutching people’s hands and spilling my sorrows. Here: a secret, a memory, a dream. Here: all my sins. I read somewhere that desire is never simple. There’s hazy, gold light flooding my days, and I meet with the unmistakable realization that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be alone. Love is you scrolling through your feed as I lie in bed next to you crippled with loneliness. Lonely when I am alone, and lonelier still when I am with you. If this sounds accusatory, I apologize. I bear all the guilt and the responsibility.

I take all my secrets and my duplicitous nature and confess my sins to captured passersby. Clutching their hands, I invoke a church in every room in this city. There’s no forgiveness anywhere. All judgement comes from within. A forbidden thought: Maybe things would’ve been different if I could’ve been pretty. I stopped sharing my insecurities because you said it felt like requests for flattery.  No. No, I said that. Here: all validation must come from within. Now all the flowers have lost their color.

Please bring me an island, because I am tired and I hate myself.

I turn “low maintenance” into a stone and slip it into my pocket. I turn “bad decisions” into a stone and slip it into my pocket. “my weight” “my tears” “my face” “my scars” “the tenderness with which you looked at me” “all this time wasted” pocketed.

I go for a walk into the river. Floating in the drenched remains of his feathers and melted wax, I come across Icarus. Hi, I say. Even death can’t stop the ticking of my clock. Do you need company? I clutch hands. I follow his gaze to the sun (cruel, bright). The skies break apart to pour upon us.

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