i have so many letters to write to so many people. none of which i'll ever write, but the words of them pool collectively right beneath the surface. look close, come close, you can see it, harsh adjectives that i've never known, and my undying jealousy. love and hate that once so easily nestled like purring cats for too long have lain with claws hidden. blood splatter on cool concrete, my knuckles are scratched from kissing too many brick walls. but don't worry, they've never felt half as bad as yours. i promise.

roman deities were never this jealous, were they? accolades, beautiful blonde flowing locks. these could never compare.

there's no subject, predicates and the subjunctive have never been heald so fiercely in competition. there's no room for comparison on this iron bed, no room for compassion. and i push this as hard as i can. and it still doesn't work.

this isn't what i am! i swear it, with every core of my being. this is the harshest reality, the most painful search for a missing adjective i've ever experienced, and it leaves a certain numbness in the limbs, a certain sparcity in the blood, a certain lamentation within the head. it never felt so good to reintroduce my body to the floor, it never felt so bad to be falling.

i can't stand myself. you shouldn't either.