my words are not ever coming directly through me. soft like honey exists like it’s own person in my brain.
a tall beautiful, girl standing at the front door of the most exclusive rooftop in the city – reading you before you say anything. she chooses what she likes and doesn’t like and decides if you get in.
only she’s not arrogant and superficial. she picks out the best, the ripest, the shiniest, the most ethereal, and lastly – the softest.
it’s slowed me down; she wants me to be perfect.
the one thing they don’t tell you when you start something of your own is how much of yourself you’ll put into it. here I am, delving into the darkest parts of me and displaying it to strangers, well-lit and bolded for everyone to see.
they don’t see you re-writing, coring, criticizing your own work. the work that came from the pit of your gut, and you poured it so seamlessly onto the pages- only for her to hold it up at a different angle and toss it aside.
do you see? it’s not me. I’m infatuated with you every syllable I scratch against these pages. it’s her, she’s the one who crosses her arms and shakes her head. I made her, I feed her- she’s mine and somehow she’s turned against me.