AntoinetteGiulia

I want to rip every inch of blue road mapped out on my skin Every trail taken has lead me here Has made me this Has left me aching and desperate Who will travel along this broken trail with me I am alone as I have ever and will ever be Tonight More than ever The road begs to be blotted out and remapped in red ink Who am I to deny a traveler's destiny Who am I

Drags on and on and -- on like a picture of a cigarette -- drawn on tobacco paper -- irony fond, fresh like a morning rise -- dawn. Mindless endless lists, an off-like lisp, red lines on wrists, an almost inconceivably charismatic she "screams in silence, a sullen riot penetrating through her mind." I fell hard like a penny dropped off a skyscraper: exponentially fast though hard to see, and deadly hard to those down below.

I’m insecure because I’m fat. I’m insecure that    it’s too weird    and too strange how I act. I’m insecure that    deep down there is something fundamentally wrong,    a song so very loud    yet somehow    no crowd    could ever hear it. I’m insecure more than I admit. Here’s a list. I’m insecure that no matter how much I accomplish or how    much money I make,    I’m a fake.    I worry about my fate. I’m insecure that my luck will run out.    I doubt myself,    wonder just how    I’ll keep this going,    when it will end. I’m insecure that I don’t

A smile I know -- bright, full, and somehow just a little more -- belies a deep, prolonged desperation for which I've grown to know well, which scares me. Brick floor, cold. Heating lamp, warm. Outside, surrounded by canvass and plastic to keep out a storm. Table cloth, so fancy and smooth I wouldn't know the material. (It's royal blue for what that's worth.) Real wax candle, dripping and trivial. Black dress, shoulders, elegant, chest, I'm a mess, flashes of you and me pressed (purple-ish red bed sheets), hair a mess, mental images of me holding your arm down, and your soft breasts heaving between periods of rest. Questions, answers, opini