I’m writing in order to show you the order of the way this feels to say. I’m thumping and singing and teeth slightly ringing and face is itching and I’m forgiving this day.
I woke up befuddled, my hair was all muddled, the woman outside screaming, “bitch.” I took it upon me to sit down and draw me the reason I felt so extremely gray.
And here’s what it’s like to wake up in the night, confused about who you are. It feels like a dress that was put to rest on the floor. It’s beauty is only the memory it holds and the day it danced to song. It languidly stops and the guests arrive slowly and take off their spongy visage.
So this is a day, like a tier on the cake, when it feeds for finality. The thing so pleasing that holds so much meaning is never here to stay. And there I go or here I stay, and it’s still today, always today.