Failed essays, each belying my immaturity… What am I saying? This is my life I lament: real life… lives. Their blood stains my hands. Why did I try to write with them. I lament spilling ink, but the sin is simpler: taking people’s lids off, handling their bottles.
If you allowed you to love yourself, the rough diamonds languidly studding all the curves of your underground, you would understand how silly it is to wish you were more. You already are so much.