My hands are out of shape and getting cramped up.
I don’t bleed through my pen laying on a floor.
I’d tell you that spreading my time too thin is what has made it tough.
It wouldn’t be true.
“Busy” is my usual answer when asked “What’ve you been up to?”
But busy isn’t why I don’t speak to you.
I think I lost me, I can’t figure out where, but somewhere I lost who used to philosophy in inky blue.
Maybe deep down I think maturity equals silence.
I’ve felt that.
But then does silence equal shame?
‘Cause I’ve felt that.
I rarely relive memories in my head.
The knots tied in my stomach over simple memories leave me something to untie and reheal for another precious long time.
I don’t know who I really was, but I liked her.
I don’t think many approved of her, but she wasn’t all bad.
Perhaps that was the very essence of her, the lack of need for approval.
Who I am now, I know less than ever.
Floating fragments of each person I’ve been but they don’t all quite fit together.
A little bit of pretty doesn’t get along with so much rough.
You can’t be well spoken with as much as I cuss.
And I know that, but hell.
Or maybe it is well spoken, or rather well said.
I say it how I see it, and most of the time what I say is equally as harsh as the emotion it’s rasping down through me.
Maybe now I speak so harshly because I never spoke for so long.
This rant I feel should end somewhere here soon, before it quits making sense to you...
But maybe we’re past that now, oops.
I’m going to try to get me back.
The loud and outspoken, the brave and unashamed, the breathlessness of happiness, I’m going to find it again
I hope you do too.
XoXo, Gussie
