Puddle stomping in old memories. With faded ink for spashing raindrops. And scattered pages of self-indulgence for tiny ponds. Barefoot and reckless. Embarrassed at the myopia and puerility in words that I must own. For I wrote them. Entire pages with huge, oily smears of narcissism. There's no other word for it. The ink bleeds across the dirty hardwood floor. Staining my hands with shame for the rest of my life. Words I regret saying, stuck echoing in my throat forever.
11:34 p.m. - 2020-07-29
Recent entries:
Thanking the Pandemonium - 2020-11-26
Simplicity of Sometimes - 2020-11-25
Bubblebeams - 2020-11-18
Red Blue Green Purple - 2020-11-11
Too Young to Descend - 2020-11-11
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