bipolar fever dream

i have tried in my way, to be free.

[bipolarfeverdream]

am I safe here? (part one)

And what do I know about belonging? I asked him, the one with silver hair. I can’t look ahead so instead I look down at the carpet through gray foggy eyes. A simple subject at first, yet the more I ponder it, it seems to become convoluted beyond approach. I surmise that it’s related to a feeling of safety. When do you feel safe? A byline I also can’t speak to. So, I go forth and, in the days to come I begin to think that many of the things and spaces that I belong to are ones of discomfort but nonetheless I belong to them. I will start with the mind and body connection. Unfortunately, as of late, I don’t know I belong to either, at least not by choice. Neither is safe. In fact, they are in a constant war with one another. I live in a constant mental dichotomy of sanity and the other. When my tongue is unforgiving, and rage ensues and hypersexuality is conflated with romance – oh. How fun. Yet, in this dichotomy to whom do I belong? In regards to my body, it feels like I’ve lived a century but it only exists in the stolen glances of others. It betrays me every night and again every morning. Hunger becomes a whisper, a soft negotiation and then a promise. Am I safe here? No, but I belong here.

My contradictions are not to be mistaken for lies. Each contradiction spoken is true and I’m bound to all of them. They make sense to me and in fact the more my ideas oppose one another, the more I understand them. To my unknown lover they begin as alluring, fetching even. As time goes on and the more convicted I become, they grow tired and unamused. In their eyes I am indecisive, inconsistent and even childish. Please, it’s my demon, I tell them. I relinquish the need and more importantly the desire to be understood by them. Maybe we can just laugh and drink and walk and laugh some more. My contradictions may be the only thing that makes sense to me and that has become enough. I understand me and that relationship should be held to the highest accountability. I think I’ll rest here for a while and enjoy that. Am I safe here? I’m not sure but I belong here.

My reflection and my fracture. My father. I watched from a distance, around a corner or hiding in a closet. Why was I never comfortable around him? Unpredictable rage and then subtle console were guidelines to be enforced, not suggested. In years to come, we are more alike than not. Turns out, I am my father’s daughter. Mental affliction that doesn’t choose but rather just consumes anything in its path was our birthright. I think we both have yelled too loud and too soon, and disappeared when it was convenient for us and devastating to others. Our lives were built upon unstable ground and those who loved us just learned as they went along. One week we are bright, the next we are invisible and this is how our lives will carry on. The difference between the two of us is that I reveal too much too soon and you will never reveal enough. I wish we could have shared secrets but that just wasn’t meant for us and I have to learn to let that lie. I inherited your laugh, your pain but beyond that has yet to be seen. Am I safe here? I never was, but I belong here.

[bipolarfeverdream]

Clockwork Circus

It takes a simple idea to take root in the mind, or at least in mine. Bipolar is the soil and the delusion quickly takes root. I heard of a place, potentially fictional but whether it’s real or not is bee Clockwork Circus there is mutual respect: follow the rules, respect them and you’re safe. You’ll return back to where you belong, safe and sound. My free will however allows me to either be obedient or defiant and curious. I need an escape, my life depends on it. The simple idea that has taken root has consumed me for years, it wakes me in the night  and cuts my days short. No one else shares it and my imminent isolation is encroaching every day right before your eyes and you turn a blind one all the same. What purpose does the circus really serve? It only brings awareness to more choices, to another dichotomy, as if bipolar wasn’t enough…But does leaving the circus fix anything? 

Everyone here is smiling, everything is technicolor and they are all polite at best. Don’t remove your mask.  Don’t answer if you hear your name called. I already wear a mask in reality and if my name is called it's usually bad news. Much like my real life, I’m itching to break the rules. If I did so more often could I find relief temporarily or otherwise? This place advertises happiness if you stick to the guidelines, so does bipolar, except no matter how much therapy and meds I will always live with bipolar symptoms no matter what. Just like this circus and just like my handicap there is undiscovered beauty but something is deeply off here. I’m fucked either way. So if you find I’ve gone, not in body but in mind, I’m at the Circus where nothing is free, my memories are fading, I keep my mask on and I’m trapped in the hall of mirrors trying to swap with another Kailyn that can do better in my reality than I ever could.sides the point. The Clockwork Circus is an abandoned theme park of sorts that could be accessed via dream  or potentially a nightmare. It’s full of carnival rides and frozen faced carnies. Entrance times are between 2:31A and 2:49A. Perfect for me because I am in a twilight state of Valium or Klonopin and a healthy dose of Trazodone. I wake up each night at these hours in a state of debilitating fear and despair. The rides come at a cost and it’s not of monetary value but something much more unforgiving. Upon arrival I”m told not to eat the ice cream as it erases memories; of course I’m served up a double scoop. I’ve seen enough, I”ve seen it all and my memories are of little consequence to me. 

As the tide rises, it’s about time to leave, the real owners of this place are coming to collect. Yet I’m tempted to stay. But as the true owners of the circus loom and shadows are casted far across the circus, my time is up and my nineteen minutes of bliss have come to an end. I”ve always been drawn to the dark and the depraved and the forbidden. I begin to think this is the escape I’ve been praying for. It’s somewhere between death and eternal suspension. As I’ve arrived for the first time, there’s an euphoric dread. Nothing I’m not used to after a ketamine infusion and a couple of valium. Everything here is so slow and hypnotic and it’s disconcerting. Although I’m a tad apprehensive, my intrigue overcomes this sensation and I go deeper into the attraction. Everyone here knows something I don’t but I don’t ask questions as that was rule number one. I feel impending horror, a dichotomy I have navigated my entire life. How is this place so bad?

I’ll leave you with this. I don’t want to be apart of the circus show. I want to be invited, an extended stay until I return with a fresh memory slate and new awareness. Between substance abuse and a lack of rhyme and reason I shall await my invitation with bated breath. Is this my construct of heaven? Hell? Either way by way of dream or nightmare or self-induced psychosis, it shall be.

[bipolarfeverdream]

violence beneath the surface

I thought we were doing better, I thought you were doing better. It seemed my violence was cured but the truth is, I’ve always been this way. It’s really not that hard to know the real me, all it takes is time and I’ll show myself to you. They don’t make them like you anymore. I stand quietly over you looking down at you and how pathetic you are to be fooled that I am a sweet girl who is thoughtful and kind. And you don’t know the havoc I’ve wreaked or the evil incited. Or that my motives are selfish and self serving and this pit you’ll try to fill is nothing more than a dumpster fire that can only keep bystanders warm. Kafka was comforted by the grotesque and that’s all that’s pounding in my head as you sit in the chair looking down at me and my puddles of red. You fetch me a sweater and I think to myself:

Cross my heart hope to die

Will you miss me when I’m gone

When I’m down

Or will you be relieved

To not be a witness to an evil girl

With evil intentions

Who was selfish and impulsive and drowning.

[bipolarfeverdream]

how to take a life

Who do you pray to for death? Who do you beg and bargain with for that cease of breath? Man makes plans and god laughs but I’m not. So tell me, did he grants us life could he be so gracious to take it away with one simple and honest prayer? I was raised to have a strong faith. I was not born that way, I was trained that way. God is always with you, you just need to call on him. That wasn’t engraved in my DNA, and my first words were not to thank god for delivering the Son of Man. My first breath was a cry and I’m certain that will also be my last. We’ve all heard, you get what you think about. But what will my last cry be for? Will I be cunning and ask why I’ve been forsaken like Christ himself? Or will I cry a sigh of relief and thank you god for delivering me, not from my sins but from my absurdity.

No, no I am no one special. My mother has humbled me and reminded me so. You’re not special Kailyn, everyone feels this way. So tell me mama, do you feel the blade? Do you watch the water make homemade lava lamps? Did you imagine your wedding or your funeral? I read that the daughter who has no children is blessed. That an interruption in that bloodline indicates she has learned the lessons of reincarnations past and she can finally rest. Rest. Rage in ribbons and embroidered wrath is what you’ll find in my lineage. What you do what your life is up to you Kailyn, just be in the right frame of mind before you decide. I’ve never had that. I’ve never heard it so frankly and had that permission that my life is my own and I can decide whether it stops or starts.

I ask when will it start? And I ask when will it end? To me they are the same side of a coin. Flip it and either way it lands doesn’t matter to me the answer nor the consequence. How can this be? I would give the shirt off my back to my unknown lover. I would fight for their rights even when they’re wrong. I would cross county lines and pay any bounty so they would know my love. How can this be? I am empty. I am cold. I am depraved. A lost woman. My mistakes have built a home that rests upon my shoulders and the consequences of my choices lay heavy on me. Do I deserve to desire when my life is so obsolete. Whats the point any sane person would ask. I told you before I’m made of contradictions. I’ve told you before I’m unreliable in what I say. What I haven’t told you is this: I don’t believe I deserve to breathe but as of 11:09 pm, my lungs are here for you and they are steady. And finally, to you mama, sometimes I believe the stars have forgotten me but you never did.

[bipolarfeverdream]

am i safe here

And what do I know about belonging? I asked him, the one with silver hair. I can’t look ahead so instead I look down at the carpet through gray foggy eyes. A simple subject at first, yet the more I ponder it, it seems to become convoluted beyond approach. I surmise that it’s related to a feeling of safety. When do you feel safe? A byline I also can’t speak to. So, I go forth and, in the days to come I began to think that many of the things and spaces that I belong to are ones of discomfort but nonetheless I belong to them. I will start with the mind and body connection. Unfortunately, as of late, I don’t know I belong to either, at least not by choice. Neither is safe. In fact, they are in a constant war with one another. I live in a constant mental dichotomy of sanity and the other. When my tongue is unforgiving, and rage ensues and hypersexuality is conflated with romance – oh. How fun. Yet, in this dichotomy to whom do I belong? In regards to my body, it feels like I’ve lived a century but it only exists in stolen glances of others. It betrays me every night and again every morning. Hunger becomes a whisper, a soft negotiation and then a promise. Am I safe here? No, but I belong here.

My contradictions are not to be mistaken for lies. Each contradiction spoken is true and I’m bound to all of them. They make sense to me and in fact the more my ideas oppose one another, the more I understand them. To my unknown lover they begin as alluring, fetching even. As time goes on and the more convicted I become, they grow tired and unamused. In their eyes I am undecisive, inconsistent and even childish. Please, it’s my demon, I tell them. I relinquish the need and more importantly the desire to be understood by them. Maybe we can just laugh and drink and walk and laugh some more. My contradictions may be the only thing that makes sense to me and that has become enough. I understand me and that relationship should be held to the highest accountability. I think I’ll rest here for a while and enjoy that. Am I safe here? I’m not sure but I belong here.

My reflection and my fracture. My father. I watched from a distance, around a corner or hiding in a closet. Why was I never comfortable around him? Unpredictable rage and then subtle console were guidelines to be enforced, not suggested. In years to come, we are more alike than not. Turns out, I am my father’s daughter. Mental affliction that doesn’t choose but rather just consumes anything in its path was our birthright. I think we both have yelled too loud and too soon, and disappeared when it was convenient for us and devastating to others. Our lives were built upon unstable ground and those who loved us just learned as they went along. One week we are bright, the next we are invisible and this is how our lives will carry on. The difference between the two of us is that I reveal too much too soon and you will never reveal enough. I wish we could have shared secrets but that just wasn’t meant for us and I have to learn to let that lie. I inherited your laugh, your pain but beyond that has yet to be seen. Am I safe here? I never was, but I belong here.

[bipolarfeverdream]

how do we become fantasies

How do we women become fantasies? How do we assume the fantasy position? From this vantage point, it would be easiest to blame my father. I learned to navigate to avoid disapproving glances and find the ground with my own gaze to avoid yours. So telling, so silent but it said so much. They say actions speak louder than words, but when actions and words are devoid where did that leave me? Your violent despondence is responsible for the exotic breed of chameleon I am today, so should I thank you daddy for breeding an object of male obsession? A new skin, a new player is unlocked and for some it's already waiting. For you, the academic, for him, the vixen and for another I'm perpetually aloof pretending I know nothing and am ready to learn everything you have to offer. I am what you make me, I crave your validation because I have none to offer myself. I do it all for you and you'll end up resenting me for it. And as long as your eyes rest upon me, I'll know the illusion is confirmed. But I'll always lose because I was never first, and there's always someone prettier, someone smarter, kinder and more cunning. I've always been a sore loser and an even worse winner. So now it's gotten to the point that I can't sustain this "character" any longer but without her I don't know who I am or where I'll go. Because that's all a fantasy is, it's not real, it's not rooted. Because each day I lived with my father, I would wake, and I would anticipate how he would feel, what would he think of me. Would he be proud? Would he regret his influence? And I would be ready to perform. To be funny, to receive his kicks and to be pretty and seen and not heard. I'm stuck in a glass, at the bottom and I can't gain traction to escape like a spider stuck and forgotten. And if everyone in this society has their role, women to be seen and not heard, but to feel so intensely and men to nurture and teach and feel important, then I'm doing everything just right. I would gladly be a traitor to my sex for love. Abandon any liberal and feminist fallacy to be seen by you. In fact I'd like to just lie here on my back and have you take control, because to see you assume your strength and your control makes me feel useful. And I'll make a lot of people mad by this but I am sure I'll make a lot of you feel seen, because as much as you don't want to admit it, you feel just as I do.

Because there was a time I wanted to die. I wasn't unstable I was tired. I was tired, so exhausted by this life, by this lie. But then someone came along that made it worth it for a while. Until they didn't, until my truth caught up to me. And when I made the final decision, it wasn't from an unstable paradigm, I was never so sure and the resolution consumed me. And that wasn't a fantasy. That was a bridge, that was my little boy blue, my confidant who saved me. And I didn't care to argue, I didn't care only for surrender but for my quiet despondence and complacency not to be mistaken for weakness or a gently "going into the night." You could've found me or not and it wouldn't have mattered.

So is that your fantasy? The wounded bird, the wounded girl in quicksand slowly sinking and you can see it but you can't believe it's real because you've only read about it in stories in the paper or in boyhood tales. Yet everyday I wish I was different. I wish I was like her, like you even. Devoid of insecurity and comparing myself to ghosts. Ghosts I'm the only one here thinking of. So how is she the fantasy? How is she the muse? She's confident, she's kind, secure, alluring and cunning. She's complete. I'm not, I'm the complete opposite. I'm drifting. I'm poor, in wallet and spirit and I spiral. I'm starving and I'm dwindling right before your eyes. I'm beyond reproach. I'm craving approval and affection and affirmation. I wake next to you thankful I'm alive but I go to sleep wishing I wasn't. It's just an essay, it's a fleeting feeling but it flees my lips more often than not. Is it love or is it loathing? It's not a cry for help but it's a quiet resolution that doesn't happen on New Year's Eve but on the eve of every waking. How do women become fantasies?

[bipolarfeverdream]

on the subject of perception

on the continued topic of perception, I gathered further research. I did so while sitting on the counter of B's kitchen. I felt, well I didn't feel, rather I was hyper-aware of a familiar sensation. the creeping notion and paranoia that begs the question, why does this person like me? i am a trope of naïveté that sprouts from my sex. what do you want from me? a rote question that comes with the romantic territory however the more wisdom garner, the faster i can abandon the constant wondering and aforementioned paranoia, so instead i posed the questions, how do i come across to you? do i seem like someone who knows themselves? why ask this question of someone you met only once? that's the point i'm trying to get at; why does other's impressions of us inform us about our own personalities? how much of it contributes to our superficial dna? why do i care? is it to further reinforce or fabricate some sort of persona that i want to create? is it to reinvent myself so i can further get away from who i don't want to be but am? is there such a thing as self acceptance when at any given time you can completely start over? and which parts of us that we don't like or are ashamed to possess were we born with and which ones did we pick up from others as we went along or even worse, made ourselves?

they say that everyone in your life is a reflection of you. what does that say about the people we fall in love with? i think it means we don't actually love them. well, we do, we absolutely do but if they reflect back to us parts of ourselves, good and bad, then what we're attracted to must be what we like about ourselves. so, does that mean what we don't like or appreciate about them must be what we don't like in ourselves, so what about the ones i've sought out where really, we weren't a good fit? i'll be the first to admit, and i know exactly the relationships i'm thinking of, that in those cases i wanted so badly to possess those qualities i thought i was attracted to. or worse, that i thought i had as well. but those were some good lessons of self-acceptance; i am who i am and if i want to change something about myself then it's because i want to change it. no one can be changed from outside forces only experiences or perhaps influence.

it should be as easy as, i know myself, and i have to live with me so why does it matter how others perceive me? this would indicate a good relationship with self and for the most part i think i live my life according to this code. so back in the kitchen, i begged the question and as the words left my mouth i was so aware of how i sounded. again, worried that i sounded insecure or immature. fuck, i don't care, as a writer you're always writing even when you're not. i guess to said subject, B, i seem like someone who is open and gaining their footing. other comments throughout the night led me to believe i seem like and honest, direct and someone who isn't shy to speak their mind. okay, i like. these are qualities i would hope i possess and outside perception confirms that i portray myself that way, therefore it must be true, right? it's kind of like the simulations way of "checking your work." you think you are, it's reflected back to you and its confirmed: kailyn is confident, honest and direct.

[bipolarfeverdream]

On the subject of validation

On the subject of women, creativity and men. Why is it that as a creatives, women abandon their creative outlets when in a relationship with a man? Okay, for the sake of this post I will speak for myself and if you find a piece of yourself in this piece of me then all the better. As embarrassed as it is to admit, I often let my passions and my hobbies fall the wayside when I am in love or shall I say infatuated with someone. I'm a passionate person and that's with anything I give my attention to because if it doesn't bring me passion, then I see no point. Here lies my theory: when we are being validated by men we no longer seek validating ourselves through our art. Mine being writing, I actually think it's kind of ironic because relationships are a big source of inspiration. It's not writing about the person, but more so the analysis and introspection of myself and what that other person brings out of me. That's the beautiful thing about relationships, you discover things about yourself that another perhaps sees or reflects back to you. Yet, isn't it a little sad? A little sad to think that I could abandon one passion for another? To abandon something that has always fulfilled me for something that is so fickle and so uncertain as attraction? It's only when I'm in it, it being whatever relationship I'm in at the time, that I question myself as a writer. Am I really a writer? Am I a fraud? And it's because I'm not doing it, I'm not validating myself. To ask those very questions indicates invalidation. So where am I getting it from? A man. Another. Someone outside myself. How are they validating me? They never ask to read my work. They rarely ask what I write about. It's my own doing really. Because I'll be the first to admit that getting that attention, that flattery...that rush from their touch, their kiss or their gaze. Yes, the male gaze. That hit of dopamine from the one that holds my interest (long enough), that is the validation. That I could be loved, that I am in this moment enough and that writing could never give me that. That was hard to write, that was difficult to read back but I'll say this: after I write my truth, truth that I have yet to find I can speak to said male, that relief that comes after, I haven't felt that with anyone yet. At least I don't think I have. If I'm being honest, I find myself in a chokehold of anxiety when I am in relationships because of that fleeting feeling I mentioned before. I have often found it unbearable to sit with the uncertainty if this person is going to leave me or not. I have said before I am always stuck in the paradox of wanting to be alone, that I am better alone because I am free of the dread yet when I am alone, I am left with the yearning I so often dwell in and write about. Can this all be connected back to my previous question about being perceived and how perception is what makes up our identities? Is this validation akin to being perceived and finding identity resolution? Or does it leave me seeking this validation and positive perception from men to feel complete in some way or that I've passed some imaginary test placed in front of me? This will be a continual conversation that I view more as a case study of my own participation and contribution.

[jaimeroyalrobertson-deactivated]

joan baez performing 500 miles and harmonizing with the audience you will always be famous

[bipolarfeverdream]

it hurts to miss you but there is a sweet aftertaste you left in my mouth and it's there where i find you will always live.

[bipolarfeverdream]

i forget where i heard this but someone once told me or said somewhere that as a writer you are always writing even if you're not. constantly and incessantly i am always writing in my head however it never seems to come to the paper as eloquently or even coherently as it existed in my mind. i liken it to taking a picture of the sunset but the photo will never do it justice.

[bipolarfeverdream]

"how are you doing?" my friend from Bali asks me over Instagram messages. I can't ever lie to her. We met in Paris and it seems that fate brought us together after crossing each other's paths at various fashion week shows and events we finally were seated next to one another front row at Leandro Cano. Instantly I felt that I never had to explain or justify myself to her, she just understands and even though we've lived a small lifetime already, I know that she is one of the few people in my life that can comprehend the essence of my higher self. At this point in time, how could I answer her question? I said that I think I'm experiencing a small existential crisis. Lately, I feel that I am not so sure I have the strong grasp on my identity that I once did. If I were to be alone and truly alone in that I had no communication with anyone, if no one were left on this planet, who would (or could) I say that I am? I don't know. My identity seems so dependent on being perceived and that I am performing whether I am aware of it or not. I feel sometimes as though I am that monster from Spirited Away, just eating and consuming all of this information to be better informed on who I am. It's like I'm listening and reading to my favorite artists and writers and appropriating the pieces of them that I like, the facets that I wish I had and just wearing them like a sweater. Is that why I always feel so misunderstood? Because I don't understand myself? We think we do, but philosophy would quickly tell you that's your ego. There are attributes about myself that I can say I know for sure, but I think I would be lying. I don't know. I don't know that I'm loyal, I don't know that I'm trustworthy, I don't know that I'm empathetic. Most of what I think I know, I don't. I just know that I feel so disconnected and that I'm like film that gathers on top of milk when you are warming it on the stove. I'm just floating on the surface. So, then I wonder why when I am with someone romantically and I can truly say that I am happy, do I feel okay? I read once that only love is real. It's the only real and true thing because it's what we are all born out of and its not from our parents but from spirit. If we're going with the notion that this is indeed true, then when I am feeling the feelings of love, and it's then when I feel "complete," is that when I am knowing myself for certain? Is this why I crave love so badly, because it's not even about the other person but about the opportunity to feel at peace with myself, to have that intermission of longing and loathing? Of course this calls into question my level of love for self. Understanding and exploring how I feel with myself as I am in this case, is showing love for myself. How can anyone understand me if I don't understand myself?

[bipolarfeverdream]

There's a fine line between self-loathing and self-preservation. I've been thinking a lot about how often these two categories walk side by side. I have to constantly live in a state of being hyper aware as well as hyper vigilant when it comes to things that provide uncertainty as that really provokes my anxiety and obsessive thinking. How much do I identify with bipolar disorder? Is it the bane of my identity? It just might be as it does influence a lot of my life. For me it has become a sort of scapegoat or explanation for why I have always struggled within myself to justify the contradictions that seem to guide my behavior. We all have them, but I feel that they have left me so misunderstood and that goes hand in hand with the feeling of shame. Shame is the lowest emotion that we as humans can feel and I've felt more than my share of shame in my short lifetime. In my attempts of self-preservation I am briefly relieved, even proud yet self-loathing soon follows as I have to practice preservation for protection of my mental state. Recently, I had decided to try something new, a new approach if you will and really allow myself to "enjoy the moment." I found myself grounded and rooted in many fleeting moments with someone and it turns out they just didn't see a future with me although I would argue that I was witnessing a slow train wreck happen over the course of almost three hours that most, including myself and my therapist would call anxiety fueled by reassurance seeking. Whatever the reasons, one of them possibly being simply not wanted or desired, I was hurt and still am as I am writing this. I felt blindsided and betrayed by intuition as I usually see these things coming. I abandoned my usual protection practices (self-preservation) and let myself breathe. Every relationship is a lesson whether you recognize it or utilize it right away is up to you or perhaps fate, but it is. What I've learned I don't know, the wound is still fresh, but self-loathing has yet to present itself.

[bipolarfeverdream]

process and then return to the process

with each ending i return back to myself only to find i am not there. in the little deaths i am reborn and promise to myself not to abandon my creativity, my identity for validation from a man. i accept myself to myself and associate myself with things i'm familiar with. my favorite writers who also perpetually align themselves with yearning and longing. i am quiet, i am recluse. i drink coffee at seven and fall asleep at four. i pick a song and make it my personality and i take baths twice a day. i smoke and i don't speak for hours. i write in my notes app every new thought i haven't had before. i also pray and dream and wish although i hate myself for asking that you would return. i process and return back to my process. i study existentialists and try to justify a means to an end for inflicting suffering upon myself. i replay the last words you said to me. i don't leave my space and i layer perfume on my collarbone and brush my hair. i stare at myself in the mirror and i watch experimental french movies with no subtitles. i go for a drive, i see my friends and on the drive home i cry because i am simply lonely at the end of the night. i say it every time, i find beauty in the longing and in the yearning. it proves to me that i am alive and that the will to live hasn't left me yet again. there is such beauty in death, no matter how it manifests because we cannot conceptualize it or make sense of it but we just have to accept it. whether it is a figurative or literal death, it's just the same. my identity in regards to being a writer have been jeopardized and i have only been to blame for that. my word is all i have in this life so i make them true, not beautiful but if they are and evoke a feeling, even if it's pity, then i am satisfied. albeit it narcissistic, i am a woman and can't help it.

[deolah]

[bipolarfeverdream]

two weeks too long

you told me three things that broke my heart: you don't go for ones like me, our future is void and finally, goodbye.

[cocainejuul]