“I don’t feel like a part of anything.”
I read that online. Aside it were pictures of faces - girls -
Split up and sewn together.
My mother watches me
Watch her flowers
Slurp up the water from the vase
For three or four days.
I tell her how I feel I am disappearing.
I’d read about it in books – characters who change,
And how it’s irreversible.
She said she finds me ordinary.
I so want to be anything but petty, anything but small.
There is a hole out in the field beyond our house.
It never reached water, but looks bottomless.
We dig deep to see what will retrieve us.
And sometimes I want to dig deeper
And deeper, to see what pulls me out of it all.
Here I am too accompanied.
I buy books to look at them.
And I wonder how many more fucking things
I’ll have to force myself to care about
Before I feel worthwhile here.
Maybe I’m just someone who likes fewer things.
Ever thought of that?
Do I have to consume everything?
I'm tired of consumption
And searching. I just want to hit the bottom,
Where anything that matters to me will matter,
And anything that doesn’t will simply not matter.
And I won’t apologize for any of it.
If I want something, it'll be for the right reasons.
Because it’s me. Not because it's expected of me.
I don’t want that tension.
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