Sitting on the toilet. On my period. Listening to music that will continue to make me cry because it’s the only thing I have. Music has always been there when no one else was and continues to serve as my most trusted confidant during my most vulnerable times.
I cry for all that was. All that wasn’t. All that will never be. Mourning. Constant ebb and flow of life and I feel it all. I want to pour my soul on a canvas. In a photo. In literature…I have to get it out or I fear it will completely and utterly consume me.
No rest for the weary indeed.

















