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  • Writer's pictureElise Delap

I'm Not Here to Answer Your Questions.

I’ve been feeling clumsy lately. With my body. With my mind. With my heart.

As I look down upon myself, I see bruises. I see scrapes. I see cuts. These were not purposeful, but they tell the story of who I am in this moment. A little less cautious. A little more uncontrolled.

I’ve stopped using my calendar. No longer do I cross off my daily accomplishments in pencil (the safest writing tool option). My mind has to carry more nowadays. When I wake up in the morning, it feels like I’m living in a foggy haze with one streetlight dim in the distance. I question my reality. It’s pretty terrifying and blurry.

Romance is simmering. My pleausure is so messy and inconsistent. I am equally suffocating under the pressure of everything I know to be true, and tingling with the rebelliousness of contradiction. My relationship status with humanity is complicated, which is so right, yet so fucking frustrating.

Why haven’t I allowed myself to feel frustrated? Why have I always dodged any outward expression of shittiness like the plague? I always end a negative sentence with a bizarre laugh, or a “yeah...but it’s fine.”

Well guess what? It’s not fine. And an acceptance of the cards I’ve been dealt is a denial of my potential. No longer am I here to cater to your optimism or cheery disposition.

I’m not saying you should intentionally seek pain… but I’m also not saying you should avoid it either.

It’s time to get turned on by my own failure. I’m going to get so disgusting and it’s gonna be so sexy.

Sorry if I don't respond for awhile. It's nothing personal.

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It’s time to pack my bags and move somewhere warm.

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