the two of you walk around the lake,
trying to balance on the familiar, unsteady ground.
around you, icicles hang from trees like glass ornaments,
swaying lightly in the wind.
they’re on the edge of breaking off the branches
but they don’t.

And I’d make myself sick if I was another person watching my thoughts. It’s a blurry and slow-moving
compilation of coincidences stacked on top of eachother: sticky teacups stacked on a desk, junk mail

leave your house for a while,
traipse around and think that
you’d rather be at home.
remind yourself the world has meaning
even though
you don't believe it.
work tirelessly,
rest after it’s too late.
note that privilege comes with guilt
feel guilty

When I dance for the kitchen window, the mirror it becomes in the dark, I become shapeless. Like my soul feels. No longer a female body—or male—but an artform; my representation of authenticity.