What does it look like to speak honestly
To nobody
But still choose
To post it?
I could write notes, I could paint on my walls (with proper approval from someone who thinks they “own” “the” land, of course), I could open the journals I’m afraid mark time or ruin the perfect way to start something.
But I click w w w dot
What’s obscure enough you can’t even judge it? How do I say it’s been a lot easier to make my art confusing than honest, how do I write something beloved and attach it to my name when I don’t even want you to know it.
I could be anonymous, but I couldn’t be.
I’m afraid I made it sound like I didn’t care it all. Like I don’t read time-touched words and coo at their melody or sting.
It seems I’ve gained confidence in these past few years. It also seems that I gulp my tea too quickly. And I’m afraid I start far too many sentences that way.
Romantic relationships may come and go but at least I remain steadily stoking my love affair with italics.
No you, my love