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ots

scraps of crumpled paper litter the floor; it hurts that i can't think anymore. no, no; not you, never you, you did nothing, there was nothing to do. stay with me; my thoughts are drenching my hair, so i must put my hair up in a messy bun; i haven't shampooed my hair for a while, and usually, after i shampoo, i usually oil it, but right now, in this moment, i am vulnerable and all my scars/wounds/scabs have been opened and my hair feels ... my hair feels dead. yet, you stay, you say the wind has never blown so subtly. i look around for a diary, a-- what? a pen, a pad, pencil, paper, anything to pen my thoughts, then i realize i have my poetry. that is what i write for. that is how i think. i am open in my words and to the world, i am as naked as the earth. that is why i feel most comfort in my body, in my head, in my mind, and the world can dissect me as it wishes, but it does not need to. i am interested in strangers, oh, how i yearn for that spark; the casual-ness of it all...