it’s been a while.
and if you’re here… you’ve probably come from elsewhere.
i thought about privating & deleting all my entries.
but… what do i have to hide? my humanity? my soul? the bits and pieces of me the meat market never considers?
i won’t be writing on here anymore.
it’s a sad and sweet collection of a girl in her twenties trying to get it right and continuously missing the mark.
i’m glad that’s behind me now.
and if you’re wondering what changed it all…
it’s pretty simple.
i stopped giving a fuck.
i stopped caring about what everyone else wanted for me.
a very sober & stable (finally) Slayhil
why do i still want to make it work
pick up the pieces, click erase
blur out the past, slow down the pace
you never were a rehabilitation center for me
but god damn, you did something to me
and now it’s floating off into space
love slowly dying as it dissipates
did you kiss me on the cheek often in a past life?
did you make me something close to a wife?
do you feel this too?
people tell me there’s more to life than romantic love, people tell me to move on, to leave you alone
and i do, but fuck, i still want you
it could still be true
i seem to shake the miss you blues
it’s morning, and it’s been a while since i’ve found myself with anything to say.
as the seasons change i find myself feeling more existential and lost by nightfall and pretty benign in the mornings.
i’ve fully settled into my routine in the mornings. i wake up around the same time. make…
it’s day sixteen. i can see myself making another stretch of sixteen. and then another, then another, then another.
i guess it’s not abstaining from alcohol that seems to be the thing here.
it’s more so… the way i seem to deal. or more rather, the way i can’t.
i don’t know if…
i don’t know what exactly i’m going through. some people say when you get to this point it’s only indicative of your false, previous reality falling away around you. like sand castles. the waves of reality finally get to cross your shores. and it’s not a destruction, it’s a realization…
i’m not bitter, no
and i know, i know, i know
it’s nothing special
you paint the same canvas over and over again
you don’t bother to change your palette
you don’t bother to switch your paints
and the strokes seem gentle,
only the subject knows how harshly you pressed on them
and only you know how you’ve stained my skin
it hurts, surely
but i’d rub myself raw all over again,
if it meant i’d rid myself of you
no color, no fever, no sin