February 25, 2011
there are words that are supposed to go here. how i do not want to be joined to people by tragedy anymore. when she looks at me and tells me she feels an instant bond with people who have been through the other side i feel awkward. ants in the pants little kid awkward. i think how all the people i have loved i have loved because they like the things i hate about myself. she is so beautiful and soft spoken and how could i not. how could i not stare at her grease covered hands in the soil and feel relieved
relief is such the monster.
Edited: I wanted to make a note on this because someone asked if this was about murder or suicide (as i tagged it “suicide”), that this piece is about a conversation I had about feeling connected to other people whose life has been touched by suicide. While I love the interpretation of murder (more than one of suicide) and would possibly use the piece in that way in the future, I just wanted to note that this piece does not reflect my or anyone else’s desire to be dead.