(no subject)

what an immaculately silly evening.
let's do it again.

(no subject)

then he magically reappears and shatters the night's brilliance, my opportunity of growth and hope. for the sake of poetry, i kept this: How I loathe his existence, that sick, fucked up vision of a man. He is a shattered, jagged piece of the mirror of masculinity that we all look into and see ourselves opposite. I hate him. And for once, only once, the allowance I am giving myself is relentlessly assuring. I hate him, and I am allowed to hate him. I don't care if he knows. Actually, the more he knows, the better he knows to stay out of my way.


I want opportunity to call me;
somebody, call for me.