casualreginaspectator

[casualreginaspectator]

me? post on Tumblr? never. here's a thing I just wrote I didn't wanna type up. probably annoying. idk. enjoy my lil gay page blurb<3

[casualreginaspectator]

We began like this: a word, a smile, a kiss, an intricate dance between sharp edges trying to mask tomorrows pain. I have never really learned a fucking thing from painful experiences except it hurts. they say to love someone long term, is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be, but the danger isn’t in loving you, it’s in letting myself go, but just because you always heal on your own doesn't mean you always deserve pain.

It never seemed so much like letting go as cutting out a piece of my heart.

[casualreginaspectator]

The first time I drank coffee, I was seventeen. It was the night before the first day of my senior year of high school – a bunch of us brought tents and the country kids drove their trucks out and we stayed the night in the field behind the school, where the JV football players do their practice when they can’t be bothered to drive to their actual field. I went with my best friend, we had a tiny little tent between the two of us. And there were a bunch of our friends there, and one of them was one of my exes, which was a little awkward because he was flirting with another girl the whole time who he had no chance with, and another guy who hated my guts at the time, but we pitched our tent in their corner, and then got up and walked to the coffee box a few blocks away. I’d gone through before of course, with friends, getting hot chocolates or lemonades or water, or nothing, but never coffee. Couldn’t drink coffee. Wasn’t going to subject myself to coffee. But I was already a sinner, could already feel it encroaching on me. And besides, I knew the things I was going to say that night. Might as well.

So we walked to the coffee shop. One of those drive through ones, a chain. There was a group of maybe fifteen of us, making ruckus down the side of the road, adrenaline already pumping through us. We were starting our senior year of high school. We were doing what big kids did. We were drinking coffee.

I can’t remember what was ordered for me. I’d grown up loving walking down the coffee aisle in grocery stores; it’s a dark, nutty aroma. I’d always known I’d love coffee. And the coffee jelly beans in the 49-flavors pack were ones I’d pull to the side, save for last. I knew I’d love coffee. Couldn’t drink coffee.

It was large, blended, sweet, and creamy. I do remember that much. Meant to work my palette to it, warm me up. Didn’t need it. Didn’t like the drink, besides the coffee. But it didn’t feel bad, drinking it. Didn’t feel like the sin I’d always been told it was. Didn’t go to bed until two that night either. Didn’t wake up until four.

The first time I got drunk, I was eighteen. It was the first day of October in an October that meant everything and feels like a fever dream. It was with the guy who hated my guts the first night I drank coffee, but he didn’t hate my guts then. We had it all planned out, that I was going to try it out, because I’m not so big and I didn’t want to end up at a party and fall victim all over again. So he drove me around, picked up a bottle of whipped Smirnoff from his best friend who gave me a big ol sip from his styrofoam taco bell cup. I made a face. My best friend got me this shot glass as a graduation gift painted with the insignia from my college because it’s one of those big party schools, even though I don’t really party, and I especially don’t now, because I can’t hold my alcohol, and I don’t wanna fall victim again. But we were trying it out, and now that this guy didn’t hate me anymore I was back to trusting him, and I let him get me drunk, and we used that shot glass. Took my first shot and walked into a grocery to buy a water, and could already feel my head moving around, feel the lights getting all fuzzy. Took my second on the overlook we always parked at on late nights, and then we drove to a park, but not the one where we started hating each other’s guts. Took another, tried running away, somehow made it a straight line. Took a fourth. Kissed his neck. He ran his hands under my sweatshirt and told me about another girl he loved. I was sober enough to remember that, and the other things I said that night that I shouldn’t have. Said I didn’t, though. It felt easier, than the coffee. Less bad, somehow. I wouldn’t have even thought it was a sin at that point. Came home almost sober. Went to bed at midnight. Woke up at ten. No hangover.

The first time I had sex, I was nineteen. It was the night the guy I was with got back from Christmas break, and maybe it was three weeks of pent up whatever, but it felt right to do it then. And it did feel right, and didn’t feel like a sin. He’s attentive. He’s kind. He understood when I left him for the guy who didn’t hate me anymore. He somehow took me back when I couldn’t be with him anymore, too. He understood I was a victim. He understood I thought it was a sin. That I used to think it was a sin. That I was nineteen, that I had been waiting, that it was important, even though part of me didn’t want to care, wanted to throw it back like that coffee, like that vodka. But we didn’t. He turned on music right before, and the first song was Horses by Maggie Rogers. He held me so close. And for a relationship that was initially built on sex, that was all hookups and craze, it was perfect. That was the first night I stayed the night, too. We went to bed by eleven thirty. We were up at four to do it again. Got out of bed at eight thirty.

I was a victim at sixteen. I’ve already told that story.

I lost my faith at sixteen, too. Or maybe it was seventeen. Or maybe fifteen.

I was fifteen when I had my first kiss. There’s a guy who comes into my department at work when swing shift takes over who looks like the guy I usually consider my first boyfriend, even though he wasn’t, technically. See, I was fifteen. Not sixteen. If I had actually dated him, It would have been a sin.

There was this little booklet you got when you entered the Youth program, for our strength, that gave rules and outlines for what you should and shouldn’t do, what was wrong and what was a sin and what the behavior God expected from you was. And I only marked my bibles when I felt like I’d be a better person for marking my bibles, but that booklet, those informal, vital statutes, I marked and highlighted and annotated like my life depended on it – which it did. My strength was that book, that book was my bible. And in it, of course, was a list of rules for what you should, and shouldn’t, and should avoid, with other Youth. No passionate kissing. No horizontal kissing. No hands, above the clothes, under the clothes. Under your sweatshirt. Don’t arouse any feelings. But I knew as soon as this boy started talking to me I would kiss him. And maybe I could tell he was a sinner. Maybe I knew he drank coffee, drank alcohol, had had sex, before I kissed him, maybe it added to the danger of it all.

It was a terrible kiss. Made me think of the way the bodies of jellyfish move, against each other, a movement I didn’t understand and didn’t think was right. It wasn’t. But he kissed me, outside the old highschool, and then it was impassioned, and then later it was horizontal. He touched me. I didn’t tell him he couldn’t but I didn’t really mind it. Feelings were aroused. I thought about sex. And I thought about sins. I knew it was a sin, then. It bothered me. I hated it. I hated hiding it, it gnawed at me from the inside, clashed with the horrible adrenaline of being kissed. Kissed me at four. Told me he loved me at five. What was I to do but say it back?

[casualreginaspectator]

I work an assembly line. I only have for a couple weeks now, but it’ll be at least a full year before I get back to what I should be doing, at this stage in my life. I went to college for a semester. It was lovely. Not perfect, but lovely. I want to go back. I want to make college friends and join clubs and go to events and seminars and write papers that stress me out. But instead I work an assembly line.

It’s not bad, not in the slightest. I wake up at five in the morning, but really I’m used to that. Get off at three, that’s fantastic, because then I have the rest of the day to myself. I’ve been working out, too, after work. My company has a free gym I can access, and I’ve got the ones at my college. I’m still technically in college. Technically. Kind of. Not bad.

I work an assembly line. I leave my apartment at six fifteen to get to work at six twenty and I’m on the line by six twenty five, six thirty at the latest. I have to wear a smock, it’s blue and has got four buttons and I’m not allowed to roll up the sleeves, even when it gets hot. Cuffs gotta stay snug on my wrists, keeps the parts from getting electric shocks. The smock’s got pockets, like four maybe, two on the breast and two that sit on my hips, and they had me fill them with pens and box openers and little knives and shit. I’ve got a name tag. I’ve got a badge that beeps me into the building. I’ve got shoe straps, too. On my feet all day, gotta stay grounded.

I work an assembly line, forty hours a week, making near eighteen an hour. And that’s good, means I’m going to be able to save. Right now I’m pulling from savings to stay afloat, but that’s alright. I’m making money, and people talk about that shit. People talk about their money, people talk about insurance and saving and spending and health and wellness, cars and shit. My brother’s the car guy, he’s sixteen, and all he ever wants to talk about are cars, and now all I seem to talk about are cars. This guy I’m dating, we have to stop ourselves every time we start talkin about cars. But we’re adults. We’ve got cars. We deal with money. And shit.

And I work an assembly line. “We keep the lights on,” that’s what we do. It’s not so bad, not yet. The people are nice enough, for people who have worked assembly lines for, goddamn near fifteen years, some of em. I told one guy, the guy who trained my trainer, he’s a good soul and so sweet, I told him I wasn’t going to stay, that I was going back to school, getting my degree, getting a real job. I didn’t say that last bit, about the real job. About the real career. Because these people have career paths, I guess. Some of them do. Like you learn and shit, you can move up easy if you’re good enough to. This guy, he definitely will. My supervisor, she’s maybe thirty, thirty two, she started when she was eighteen on the assembly line. But I got told that at my first job, at a grocery store as a bag girl, by the woman who hired me. Started there at sixteen, same as I was then. Hiring manager now, and when I said I wanted to be in HR, because when I was sixteen I thought I wanted to be in HR, they all told me to stay. To do it there, at that grocery store. I left after two months.

But this is an assembly line. And we keep the lights on. And it’s only been two weeks, but I don’t even know what we’re building. Keeps the lights on. I’m at the end of the factory building, “building three” they call it, even though it’s all one. I’m at the end, putting it all into place. Screwing shit. I screw chassis into boards into plates and then you put stickers onto all of it. They do something, at the end of it all. Eventually I’ll move to a different line, do a different unit. It’ll be about the same though. It’s an assembly line.

And I’ve come to the opinion that every child should be required to play with legos, should be raised on legos, should be indoctrinated on legos. Because legos give you all the skills you need to work on an assembly line. You follow instructions, look at parts, build a unit.

And legos help you do other adult things, like build simple furniture you get in the mail that you bought with gift cards from Christmas because you’re still pulling from savings because even though you work an assembly line and make eighteen, you haven’t actually gotten paid yet, but you need a fucking nightstand.

I had a hard time screwing into the nightstand too. Still can’t get the drawer handle on.

And I’m screwing now too, but that’s beside the point.

I work an assembly line. And my life is so simple. On weekdays I work, six thirty to three, work out three to four, except on Mondays, which is my rest day. I come home to an apartment, which I share with two other people, but the guy is hardly ever there because he lives with his girlfriend, who he’s only been dating two months, and he comes to the apartment to do his laundry. And the girl, who is nice and brilliant and who I can talk to for hours which is dangerous for both of us because we lose track of time, but who has a hard time cleaning up after herself in the way I’d appreciate. But she lets me eat some of her food and use her espresso machine. And is usually stoned, so she doesn’t ever hear the screwing.

[casualreginaspectator]

he tapped out the rhythm to some stupid song on my thigh as I drove him home, and sang along, and when we got to his complex he made me step out of the car to kiss him outside in the snow, and what could I do but smile the whole drive back. and we spell our kisses differently and it's funny when his mustache tickles my nose, and sometimes he kisses me so hard and so long my heart does a little jolt inside, and then he'll release and kiss me so softly. does that sound like a metaphor? it's not, it's just the way he kisses me.

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets #non fiction

[casualreginaspectator]

I miss someone I’m not allowed to miss.

He’s not mine to reach for

so to save myself a confession,

I lose the thought in the pines he loves

and drink stovetop espresso.

I sit outside in the fog

and ignore my dampening sweater-

barely acknowledge the infatuation

rising in my chest.

I watch the Japanese movies he likes

and dream of dragons,

drink his favorite Red Bull

and wear the hat he left behind (twice).

Occasionally I embarrass myself

and text him,

but mostly I settle quite happily

for these passive entertainments-

for experiences through him

if not with him

(for now).

[casualreginaspectator]

how many times can a girl find love in one year but not fall into it? there was a boy with the same name as the boy now, and he played guitar just like the rest of them, and had a nose ring, and sang a song about falling in love over and over again right before Valentine's day. and then right before Valentine's day I met another boy, and he played guitar and had over a dozen of them too because he also had a lot of money, but I didn't know that so I swooned at his sweet charm and curly hair and good clothes. and I was just barely, barely on the brink of falling in love with him before he told me he didn't love me at all, not anymore. and the very next day, the boy to whom all my love sits, a boy who also plays guitar but only ever for himself, showed up in a blink of an eye, and let me be his lover, let me love him for the second time but differently, in a way that was both finite and everlasting, for a brief moment in time, and then slipped away. and then from a place I never thought it would, another boy, a boy who also plays guitar and played me a song about me on it when we were still friends but probably more, and now that we are more there's more guitar, more song, and I still can't believe it but it did happen. and so perhaps that makes four boys, and quite a few more guitars than that, and such a long list of songs. and that's only this year, only these boys, only these guitars. and how many times is it going to feel right. maybe they all are.

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets #non fiction #poetic prose #prose #writers #written #writers on tumblr

[casualreginaspectator]

his parents know about me, know what I read, know who I wanna be, even though it's only been a month. his friends know about me, have seen my picture, understand we've got chemistry. he's made a post that mentions me, on his spam account. he's gonna tell them all right away when I'm his girlfriend.

that's different than before.

I like being known, at least. doesn't feel like too much to ask, really. for knowledge.

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets #non fiction #prose #poetic prose

[casualreginaspectator]

I'm sitting behind the younger brother of the friend of the show in a church building right now. it threw me for a loop, at first, because the hair is almost the same. he's wearing his jacket, the dark brown one I've always liked. I've spoken to this brother once before, at a school function, and realized all at once it was his brother. I laughed, confirmed the fact with him, to which he asked if I was his friend.

"oh no," I said. "no your brother hates me. fucking hates my guts, really."

"what's your name?"

I told him, and he ran off.

He has no idea, this brother. has no idea how deeply I love his elder. has not a clue of our friendship. our strange little more-than-friendship. has no clue that the same fire that fueled that hate between us fueled everything else. that I've held him in my arms, wearing that same jacket.

we are both watching the same choir. this church is so strange, stranger to me now. no one claps after a song. we all perpetually sit in silence, the spaces between nearly deafening, save be a babies cry or the squeak of someone's boots against the polished yellow floor.

up in the choir sits my father. it's him I'm here to see, next to my own brother. beside my father in the stands is the country boy I liked so much, years ago. it's so strange to think that it was that same choir, this same concert, where everything got so complicated. I didn't notice it then, but my mother told me afterwards he had puppy-dog eyes on me the whole time. difficult, considering I invited my biblical David, the boy who would hurt me, to watch. the country boy, he told me a week later he was in love with me, that all he wanted was to make me happy.

"I don't think you can do that," I said. and so I ran after the other.

the friend of the show was likely in that audience too, watching. he was always watching. but this year he's gone, replaced by a younger, scrawnier version of himself, swimming in his jacket.

my brother's ex lover is in this choir, too.

it's a Christmas concert, for Christmastime. I stopped writing an essay to come here, despite the little I wanted to. my essay discusses the harm induced by high demand evangelical Christian denominations on sexual health, education, and safety. Ironic.

I do like Christmas. I like giving presents, too.

to the country boy, I gifted a scarf.

to David, an art-supplies sleeve.

to the friend of the show, warm socks he can wear under his dress pants.

to the boy now, the firstsecondthird, origami paper, and a star wars Lego set.

the boy now is drunk. very drunk. and I am at church, for my father. I put on lipstick.

the last time I was at church was only a few weeks ago -- before that, nearly a year -- to watch the friend of the show give a farewell talk. his speech was good, of course. he's terribly charismatic, a brilliant speaker. he had a dream once where we teamed up, he giving inspirational speeches and I writing concepts and outlines for him, helping his image. it was a nice idea, that teamwork. but this speech was all his own. I had to sit through the whole session, which made me terribly anxious. the building made me anxious. too many people talked to me, told me they were so happy I was there. I wanted to tear my nails through the backs of the seats. I wanted to scream. I tried to sing along, too, to the hymns. but I was too anxious to make a breath that sustained those tunes. too anxious to make any sort of pleasant sound. I was so angry, the whole day afterwards, locked myself in my room, yelled at people, slammed doors.

it's not so bad now. but I'm still angry. angry at this lipstick.

there are so many people in this room who I know, who I know have done things this church doesn't believe in, who believe contrary things.

that country boy got up to sing with his sister just now. his voice is so beautiful, and deep, and rich. he believes this church so soundly. I never even kissed him.

he still has that scarf.

I couldn't clap when he was finished.

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets #non fiction

[casualreginaspectator]

it's strange how much I write from discomfort, even if I don't recognize it. how even those those two-odd months, which were so painfully beautiful in so many ways, left me so worried, disparaged, confused, and cold. how someone I love, unbearably, slowly eroded my smile. I can't say he didn't make me happy, at times. because he did, he still does. he means everything to me. but he runs about himself with a shadow, has since the beginning. he's the boy I've always tried to fix, always wanted to fix. but I couldn't even keep him from my pain, so maybe it's time to let go. love him, from a distance.

but I started writing on here at the beginning of him. and now that the end of him has come and gone around, I find myself rather at a loss for words.

I shouldn't be. the boy from before, the boy who is both first, second, and third, he's back in my life, and it's so, so so wonderfully better. I am so full of peace. and I'm smiling again, the kind of smile that throws your head back, eyes creased closed, mouth slightly agape. it is as much a full-bodied laugh as it is orgasmic; it is the sigh of relief that comes after holding your breath in too long. it is elation. but if I am so happy, so comfortable, so at terrible ease, what's keeping me from memorializing it? etching it in stone, in ink, in marker against my wall? that pretty boy I almost fell in love with last summer, I could write about him just fine. but was I not so uncertain then, too? wasn't I always left wondering? that's what my writing shows. discomfort makes me write poetry. I wrote endless poetry about that boy.

I know I'm not alone with this. my firstsecondthird, he's told me time and time again how the songs he writes are always sad. he wrote a song about me, when he was still the first, or afterwards at least, and he wrote it so bittersweet, so slow. my head spun around in spider thin circles after he played it to me, winding me almost nearly to the point of tears. I held him so tight, unblinking, remembered how my heart dropped as soon as he started singing. how it continued to overflow and unravel after every line. how it hurt like love sometime does, even if it's not love at all. how deeply I understood his care for me. his comfort, his shape.

I do write to joy. when I do, I talk about nature. I talk about the sun. I talk about life.

I've had more people compare me to the sun, or sunshine, in some way or another this last month more than ever before. a little ray of sunshine. I think I really am so happy. people can feel it too.

he wants to write another song about me, a happy one. how do you write a love song that is happy, but isn't cheesey? how do I write about the incredible ways I feel about him without sounding so cliche.

this man is everything,

he is green,

he feels like, like maybe firecrackers, but firecrackers in a snow globe, a warm snow globe,

oh I don't know

I don't consider this poetry. but any uncertainty I feel is curiosity, and hope. or it's things I don't know, things I don't understand, things from my past that would spin me for a loop anyways. I'm not worried.

maybe it'll go somewhere, maybe it won't. but gods above, isn't it worth it if I'm happy. isn't it worth it if he only kisses my cheek when I ask him to, doesn't touch me if I ask him not to, doesn't call me sweetheart, doesn't question my sexuality, doesn't care that I know so little. he read my essay right away. instantly, he knew my pain. so isn't it so, so just, god maybe I can call it perfect here, that he also makes me feel joy? peace? and isn't it worth it because he makes me hot chocolate? asks about my passions and feelings? makes me music? isn't it all worth it when he pulls me closer by the waist of my jeans to kiss me in the elevator, when he lets me in when I ask him questions, when he smiles, oh, oh when he smiles all of it makes sense.

isn't it worth it if he's not worth wasting poetry over?

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets

[casualreginaspectator]

you were the sun

& he was the chaotic fuzzies,

all of their

frivolous exciting movements

put on a spotlight

in your presence

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets #non fiction

[casualreginaspectator]

things smell sharper in the snow. I walked past a house that often smells of cigarettes, but now smells more pointed, hits the bridge of your nose, instead of the bottom. and while walking to class yesterday, I passed a woman who's rose perfume made a hard, headachy shell around me, and hung there far after she'd gone. laundry day freezes as soon as it leaves the ventilation, and hits you smack across the forehead, straight between your eyes.

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets

[casualreginaspectator]

I used to build dreams about you.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

[casualreginaspectator]

I worry that when the sun comes up you're gonna think I look so strange

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[casualreginaspectator]

oh, dear heart, the gods are dead. can't you see them, spread in shards across the skies?

[casualreginaspectator]

I asked him what he meant when he called me beautiful, just to see, because he said it when we were only having sex before, and now that it's different and he's said it again, I didn't know. he said he'd think on it, and then told me it was something akin to perfect, or something damn close to it, something like breathlessness, overwhelming admiration. and I said thank you, and told him to never call me perfect, because I wasn't, and I didn't like that, and he said okay. but it was still nice to know that even then, even when I was just a hookup, a dating app girl, close enough to touch but too distant to reach, that he still found me beautiful and maybe even took his breath away.

and I asked the other, the beloved friend of the show, the one who had to leave, I asked him this too and he fed me lines of poetry and song. he said it didn't matter what we were, because in any weather, in any light, he would look at me and smile. and I was beautiful because that night we drove my car to the cross country track so he could kiss me, furiously, the moon was the only light we had and something about it sharpened my silhouette against the backseat car door and he couldn't help but beg his eyes, which he called perfectly flawed, to remember me like that, exactly how I was. he said I was beautiful because my brown eyes made sense against his icy blue ones, like cold waves crashing against dark, warm, earth. he wanted to walk that path. that's what he said.

and so after all of this, after these funny blond boys who occupy so much of my mind, the one who left and was replaced, and then replaced, and then left, and then gained again, I still don't know what it means when they call me beautiful. I don't know what it is to them. but they said it, and perhaps that's all I need to know.

"I'm here. and I don't have to be." that's what he said, my friend of my show, when in imploring deaparation I asked what I meant, to him. because he couldn't answer, couldn't tell me all the things he's only ever been able to hint at in his poetry.

I don't know what it means, then, but I know how it feels. it feels like people writing you poetry, singing you songs, slow dancing with you on the porch in the wind, holding your hand while you drive, showing you movies they like, making you hot chocolate to drink together on the couch. right now, it feels like blue eyes looking into mine. they think I'm beautiful.

I don't think I'll ever know what it means when a boy tells me I'm beautiful.

The connotation of that word is so different from other compliments on attraction. And I think I get hung up on the idea that it's supposed to mean something.

I have noticed that boys will never say it right away, like it means something for them too, like they're trying to say something they don't quite understand so they tell you you're beautiful. It's usually cute first, then pretty, maybe hot depending on the situation, and then beautiful.

But I've been called beautiful by casual hookups who barely knew me, and they've said it before any of my real boyfriends other did. What does that mean then?

It's used sparingly too. Sometimes all I want is the beautiful, but you rarely get it. Only in moments of clarity, or deep intimacy.

What are they seeing that is beautiful? I think I'm cute, I think I'm pretty. Sometimes I even think I'm hot. But at the end of the day, being beautiful means something different, and I don't even think the boys who say it know what that is either.

#writing #love #lovers #beautiful #journal #meaning #thoughts

[casualreginaspectator]

my mother doesn't understand how I hate being so horribly thin. how being sick for so long makes me feel sick now, how I hate the way my clothes hang from my limbs in too many folds, like sheets drapes over clothesline. I'm seeing someone again, for the second time, and the last thing I want is for him to see me naked, because I was so much fuller before, and my skin didn't look stretched tight over my bones. the flesh is weak, but perhaps not when there is only flesh that remains.

my mother grew up in the 90s, of course, when bodies that look like mine were all the rage, gaunt little hipless figures stalking down the aisles. I hate that women's bodies are a fashion trend, that I could never be a model now but that my mother couldn't have been a model then. but I hate that the way I am now, after being unable to eat on my medication for nearly two weeks, I hate that it used to be in vogue. I hate that this skeletal figure was something desirable. and maybe I shouldn't hate that, maybe I shouldn't put so much weight on what my weight does or doesn't mean. I couldn't have been a model anyways -- I'm not tall enough. and maybe this boy doesn't care. or maybe he just can't tell through my baggy jeans and big sweaters. what he doesn't know can't hurt him.

it's not like I'm not eating. I am, I eat a lot and I've started running again, in the hopes of pulling myself back up. but I seem to retain so little, and what I do gain I seem to lose just as quickly, though I can't fathom the reason why. no, this is not like the times before, when it was a punishment for myself. I want to gain weight, I want my clothes to fit and I want to feel healthy. I don't feel healthy. I don't feel desirable. I don't feel myself. my mother worries at her weight, time to time, and asked me if I hate it when I'm too thin the way she feels when she thinks she's put on too much. and I said yes, of course. and she said she thought I looked so good, that she didn't understand it. but I tell her the same all the time.

#journal #thoughts #writing #women writers #female writer #female writers #writer things #writers and poets #non fiction #gain weight #body image