xxDearOblivionxx

The thing about rage is that it can't fix you, can't make the things you need any closer to your horizon. Tired is the truth, exhausted by forces that push against us without names, without faces, without tangible force so that we collapse under the weight of ourselves without ever knowing what was heavy. I hate that others have power over me, that a man who lives 60 miles away can make me basement low and in the next breath lift me higher than I could ever float myself. I hate that men make me worse make me ache for what my father never gave me, absence of a daddy as strong a force as the absence of him. How unwilling we are to choke

The thing about rage is that it can't fix you, can't make the things you need any closer to your horizon. Tired is the truth, exhausted by forces that push against us without names, without faces, without tangible force so that we collapse under the weight of ourselves without ever knowing what was heavy. I hate that others have power over me, that a man who lives 60 miles away can make me basement low and in the next breath lift me higher than I could ever float myself. I hate that men make me worse make me ache for what my father never gave me, absence of a daddy as strong a force as the absence of him. How unwilling we are to choke

It makes no sense to worry about what you can't control.  Yes, I'm talking to you -- in my art, with my life.  It's all a double barrel pointed at your forehead lately.  And maybe this isn't subtle, but at least you'll understand.  Do you remember when you told me I didn't know what I wanted and I pretended I did and then whispered you were right?  I won't pretend it isn't a cloudy landscape, but I'm learning.  Learning about changing your mind, about saying things I don't mean but that become the truth before I have time to stop them...I didn't want to say you're right; I still don't, I can't, but maybe you are.  Maybe.  There are things you