i want to write small because i feel small and bad and stupid for saying this. for harping on it. for making it a big deal. for saying too much about it. for talking about it too much. for just everything i’m not supposed to do. for everything i’m not supposed to be.
for talking about it and proving it isn’t true for saying too much about it. for being a baby about it. for making too big a deal out of it and so it just proves how untrue and unreal and how much we just want attention and we’re being melodramatic about it all. for just again, for just being. for just everything bad that pores from our cellular body and just spreads everywhere around us.
for just.. just… oh how i must stop now. try to express this and precursor it so that people know we know. so that we have said it and that those of us that are going to say it, so that the others know we know it. that we haven’t forgotten. that we know it. and we’re going to say it and be bad anyway.
just this memory has gotten a hold of us. a hold ahold what is the spelling and word we’re looking for. and shit, i said, “memory.” it’s not. it’s not. it’s just a stupid fucking story. nothing else. but yet tears escaped. emotion escaped from nowhere or i guess really somewhere.
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