i don’t know who you are ， but i know i’m your mother. i know ， i know ， i know. ﹙ and i’m sorry for that⸻i’m sorry for you. ﹚

an empty grave held me better than any man before it and in my place it will hold the men to come.

i hate my body. i hate the desert. please let me escape. when will i be going home﹖ i hate my husband. i hate my children. i’m going to …

i don’t really feel like living.

this used to be god’s thing ⸻ but no cross hangs from ’round meredith’s neck 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔.

this is the wrong body ﹠ i want to live ﹠ this is the wrong body ﹠ i want to live ﹠ this is the wrong body ﹠ i want to live ﹠ this is the wrong body. i just want to live.

i crack open my own ribs to feel the warmth ﹠ gentleness of someone pulling me back together. i use red ribbon to suture ﹠ satin to bandage … over ﹠ over ﹠ over ﹠ over ﹠ over. it isn’t sabotage if i gain from it.

kafka diary entry of the day

and what do i do when the things i love no longer distract me﹖ what do i do when it feels a little less suffocating dreaming about anything a little life changing﹖ never for better ⸻ all for worse． i wish something might break even．

i want， i want， i want． it is unending， a need to sate and devour and fill myself with a love unknown．

i wish it would take me， and i’m not picky about the it． let it be kind， let it be gentle， let it be a death kinder and genlter than my life has been．