My year of radical (selective?) honesty.
Because I believe in my making myself uncomfortable for the greater good. I don’t stand for much, at least not in the traditional sense that always seems to taste like integrity or some kind of fuck. But I do think finding catharsis in withholding has left me with pieces instead of fortification. And I’d like to think of myself as whole. Or at least weightless.
And sometimes, you do shit… just to do shit. But wouldn’t it be great if you turned out to be all right in the end? Better, even? That the shit led to a sum of all your pieces?
(I think I’m funny.)
Maybe we should think in dreams instead of resolutions. They’re both constructs, but I like how the former has bit of panache. Empire waists and sequins. I close my eyes and they’re still dancing. It is how I know that they are important.
#1: The last day I saw you, I cried.
I didn’t want to, but I did. Rest assured, it wasn’t much. No seas or dirges to slog through. I’m not sure why it happened–I even tried explaining to her about why I couldn’t stop leaking on the drive home; tried to justify how leaving you felt like I was forcing myself into mismatched shoes.
I’m still trying to figure that one out, honestly.