Control is such a compounded state. I envy those who have a grip on their emotions, on their actions. On them. I would never think myself reckless. In fact, I am a quiet study of calculated movement. However. Isn’t their always a however with me? I struggle endlessly with what I think. I torment myself on the what if’s. I tell the Universe I trust her and then I spend the rest of my day trying to play out every scenario she has in mind for me. I know that’s not what I’m suppose to do. I know it’s unhelpful. I know that I become all iron when I sit too still. I know that I rust. I’ve spent a lot of time in my head today. Hospitals will do that to you. Hospitals keep me suspended in time wondering, always wondering. If I can paint a picture for you, allow me? I’m wearing a purple shirt and it’s covered in flour. My kitchen a tsunami of dough and brown sugar. Some French loveliness plays softly, quiet enough for me to hear my cat Charlotte’s sandpaper tongue hit the couch every so often as she licks her paw. I am trying to figure out how to reckon my need to be adored with my want to not need anyone.
The air smells of cinnamon.
30-something Mississippi queer. Bleeding heart with a soft spot for honesty and oversharing. Conquering corporate America and my own insecurities– one day at a time.