I’m okay with being alone, with being lonely for long periods of time. I’m okay with the has beens and forever metaphors, with the stagnant points of life and the little color that I have left to paint with. I’m okay with my repetition coming off like desperation. Like anticipated rejection, and premeditated withdrawal.
I’m not okay with this uncontrollable manifestation of unnecessary emotions; this twisting and turning of scripted what’s-supposed-to-be has become something physically damaging. I’m not okay with having feelings bury their way through my stomach. These feelings that have no place here. They have no cause, and yet these emotions have claws.