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I write so much for people to accept me. That is my fault. I throw myself around, hoping someone will catch me. “Maybe if I smile now, maybe if I look less sad.” I should be writing to accept myself. I should stop knocking at the window from the inside, wondering why I can’t see outside when all is dark, turn around and find the streetlight inside instead.

I’d never make for a good table lamp, I’d toss and tumble. I’m a streetlight holding tight for the next snowfall, with iron bolts keeping me still, standing tall, on the ground.

Fucking eh, cursing in English is such a huge part of who I am.

Look, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. I just know I want to be me, here. Like, no apologies, fuck this shit, this is who I am, here. I know I’m good at being honest, talking to her and telling each one of my plays. If I’m not scared of being naked in front of strangers, there is no reason I should be afraid of being scared online. It’s okay, I’m finding my feelings a place to stay.

Maybe if I start in a quiet space I’ll get the strength to follow up in a busier place, is what I’m thinking.

I want to take the best parts of everyone and keep them to myself. Damn, these beautiful people.