In Urgency

tomorrow i begin journaling again

Everybody grows up, but nobody does it right. There's no end to it either. After a point, you stop being a little woman inside a big girl's body, and you are just an open ended question with a dagger stuck to you. The question is "am I lovable, still?" as you proceed to stab the very person you want to be loved by. 

I have my own desk, my own bed. I stare at my wall with photos stuck to it, pictures that interest me, or I assume will interest me the day I turn normal. Curating a person to be in front of everybody so that no one looks into the well of shame that exists in me. 

I clean my bed before I lay on it until the morning sun shines through my blue curtains (the curtains were blue after all). I stand by the window and look at the courtyard, grassy, green, unkempt. I look at the lizard that's a constant in the room now and I ache for Romi. How I wish he was here to see me, not afraid of lizards. I guess this too is growing up, accumulating your fear and getting on with it. 

The elemental need for friends is dissolving. There's been too much hurt lately. I wander into my own wake sometimes, taking place in corners of me. I don't have it in me to ask or try for things anymore. The end is near, but so is the next day, which never stops beginning. Curled up on bed, I think of Romi, I think of you. I wonder how much you have grown and into what. Maybe when we meet next, we'll be new people to each other. 

There's been a lack beginning to take form in me, its shape ever changing. Some days I swear it's your outline, on others it's just a place to fit friends in. One day it was my father, with his slouch, and I stopped eating then onward. Cannot feed the body that hosts the fear, can you?

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hi, these are all points i wish to expand upon someday. maybe. note to myself.