A month later, I come back.
I don’t post anything anymore because I can’t write what I want to write. It’s a feeling that suffocates me.
I turned to my paper journals, handwritten, soft with sentences and secrets between pages.
I resent you for playing games with me and yet I don’t make it stop because it’s a game I’ll win. I don’t know at whose expense yet. Hopefully, not my own. Or yours.
The glimmer of hope will kill me.
Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you.
Donna Tartt’s Secret History. Not like the Goldfinch but still, I’m unable to peel away from the pages.
The list of things I’m putting off has grown too long for me to bear.