Naked On My Goat before throwing the manuscript in a furnace.
I've accepted my fate as a 21year old who sometimes scribbles thoughts onto the backs of napkins at a diner. I find little scraps of paper hidden between books I never finish, stuffed between the cracks in these walls or tapped to a dirty mirror where a four year old painting sits. I go through phases where I feel things so I want to write them down. I go through phases where I feel things so I want to knit and sew or mix paints, turn on music and create some bullshit that I'll shove in my closet a week from now. I have phases (or maybe these are just moods) where I think about how much can change and it makes my head feel lopsided and all I want to do is melt in a warm shower. I'll never understand why I push those who struggle to stay in contact with me away, and sulk for the attention of those who are already shoving me halfway out the door. I don't mind if you forget me.