Blank Slate: i don’t really know who/what i am. people have told me that my words...
i don’t really know who/what i am.
people have told me that my words help them and that they can relate to what i have to say when it comes to anxiety/depression/other shit. believe me, there is no better feeling than hearing that. than knowing that i am contributing some kind of good energy…
dark matter
there are things inside
that are too much to think of
and so i write them.
there are things deeper still
that refuse to form the shapes
of words. i can feel
them floating,
pressing underneath my chest
and they are a part of me and yet
i cannot say them.
