it feels like a diary, but i'm more performative than that.

place edges under my fingernails, Makes it all seem endless, edge on edge on the edge of my youth placing all that under my fingernails. A full circle moment with all my fault. 

I always feel myself an egoistical writer, me me me me I I I I.

I’m tied to the wind in my head, to the bed they are made, the thoughts of my distress. This dress of logic I wear on colder days to show strength. Tell me I lie. Tell me I look soft when I’m worn to the edge of my brain. Tell my I am likeable when I’m torn between breaking my hand or my head. Tell me I lie. 

Tell me a lie I can’t believe, and I will seek trust in myself, if I do not, I have failed myself completely, a test to my respect.

there is no respect in the way I hold my head. respectfully, what a disgrace to sit in ones pain like you just peed your pants when you where sleeping. it stinks and it sticks to your legs but there is a calmness to the moment. it can't be disrupted. it is final. ritualistic. Summoning the deeper disappointment. A fatherly sigh.

it is so romantic to let it get under skin. warm and fluid. 

perverted,

I was just thinking of this book my ex girlfriend never returned to me, that's why the metaphor is pee. Paradise Rot by Jenny Hyval. I remember the main character moving into a studio apartment with no separating walls to live with a woman. and it was very perverted. she falls in love with the woman, but it is very intimate, disturbingly intimate and surreal, I just recall rotten fruit and fruit flies. and peeing.  I think I was sixteen at the time. Will reread it and write you a review.