90% of the reason i'm composing in blogtro is made up of j r fyfe. two years ago my ladyish friend and i started reading each other's writing more and at the same time i started talking to some dude i instantly thought of as a major force for making. my parents looked away from my poetry but didn't tell me to stop. maybe this is lucky. maybe i had to fight a long time for my mom to say that she is awed over how much words mean to me. i think that love sets a table and asks me to sit and that is thanks to lucky forces. but the food the food. it is hard to make the food. people who have everything waiting to be made starve out of terror. the terror of movement. the terror of risk. pangs of aloneness crank in my chassis, too. don't you forget this: being ok with hurt doesn't stop hurt from hurting; it simply stops hurt from stopping movement. when sadness is spit in my face because i can be happy, it terrorizes my food golden brown and steals a little. i will leave it out anyway. i will leave it out all day. maybe someday i'll stop showing my glaring poison face and then i will nod at my older friend's warnings but bite my muscles juicy til them and chew my enlightened skeleton dead. have it until i rewrite this.
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