augustine
(a rant)
I don’t know who to talk to, but I want to scream and be selfish; so disgustingly selfish. It feels like there’s a 50,000 gallon water balloon balancing on a pin on top of my head, and I’m trying not to let it burst.
I feel like a dam about to break and every shameful, deceitful, wrong thing I’ve ever said is gonna spill out and stain the soil red.
My fingernails are little trowels— digging, digging, digging through shit I’ve buried under layers of shredded skin. Heaney says a shovel is a gun, so my scars are ammunition I’m inflicting.
I live in this cycle of digging new graves, and finding men that are nearly corpses already to fill ‘em.
“Oh we're a drawing of a place
We're a photo on the fridge
They mined copper for years
Oh, there was nothing left to dig”1
Tears feel like open wounds and I keep cutting myself. I bleed like it’s a circus performance. I goad the audience to gasps and laughs, and convince them it’s all a show.
Can I suspend their disbelief long enough to pack up and move along to the next town of suckers?
I’m weak. He made that clear in our conversation last night, and he’s not completely wrong. But he isn’t right either. I haven’t cut in a year, and it’s been a calamitous year. My perseverance isn’t accidental.
“Back when we were still changin’ for the better
Wanting was enough
For me, it was enough”2
end of august by noah kahan
august by taylor swift