It all piles up. Episodes unwatched. Pages unturned. Songs unlistened. Plans unfulfilled. It has been 26 years of things unfinished, almost on purpose, almost inevitable. I have been for over two decades a beacon of wasted potential. Pretty, promising, creative, hopeful but eternally wasted potential. So many stories unwritten. So many voices unheard. I fear - I know - they will remain in the only place they have ever existed; within me.

It is not only my imagination that remains quiet and useless in its usual corner, covered in dust and self-pity. All of me is standing still, the only things moving any part of me forward (or in any direction at all) are time and blood.

My mother speaks of the future and my vision becomes blurry, my heart begins to fail; I will one day have to know a life without her but not now so why speak of it? Why make tonight harder than it has to be? Death is a period which I am not writing today, so I won’t bother reading it.

My boyfriend insinuates that we love each other but, in the end, it might not be enough, that maybe we are not the good fit we thought we were and I stand up, insinuating this is it. I reach for the door, but I turn back. If I leave, it’s over. And it cannot be over. Nothing is ever over in my life. Everything remains undone.

My father, thousands of miles apart, stays quiet but not quiet enough for erasure. I stay angry but not angry enough for expulsion. We both hold onto something that is no longer quite there anymore (Love) but will also not leave (Pain). Trivial conversation and a woman who insists on forgiveness is all that we have left.

My therapist sees me once a month. I don’t know anymore (I’m not sure I ever knew) why I keep going to our appointments. I do know that I won’t stop going. I have never been sure of much in this life (I am certainly not sure that therapy is accomplishing anything) so I am sure that I need at least a sense of guidance. Church has never been my thing, so I cry on a sofa, surrounded by posters with encouraging words. I find them as equally bleak as the pictures of saints.

I sleep and I am restless. I eat and I am unsatisfied. I dream and I can’t remember what of. I fear - I know - I can only be defined by all things I am not (and never will).

Rules: Make a new post and post your latest line from your WIP and tag as many people as there are words.

I was tagged by @tannabet, I have reason to believe I am the “bitch” you mentioned in your own post, thanks, love you too, boo 😘 also, I have not written a word of fiction in so long, it is insane, so this is a line from my most recent venting session:

The one punishment I refuse is weighing the consequences, the future I cannot stand.

So now I gotta tag 14 people (which is gonna be kinda hard since I have not interacted with anyone on this blog in FOREVER, so my apologies in advance, you are all lovely people, I just fully became a lurker a few years ago): @isa-ghost @beckofthewoods @laneofpennies @florenceisfalling aaaaaand that’s it. Pretty the rest of my followers are sexbots.