I never think of myself as anything.
I don’t like labels, I don’t like thinking myself as one way or another because, I am not.
I don’t like to think I am fierce or that I am gentle, I find that I am a constant ball of contradictions, tangled up in one another. And there’s my comfort.
I am made of lot of broken pieces , held together by love, if you will. I feel sadness deep in my bones just as much as I feel love. I feel anger and jealousy and pity , red hot and deep purple , and I hate myself when I do, and God knows I like a bit of distance. So I am cold. Sue me.
I don’t try to be anything, just somebody I can live with, I just want the world to treat me as such. But no. The world wants many things. And I have to live with the world.
This post is pointless, and is frustrating so here I am , making it into the fourth week, giving you the pictures from the third.