found in phone notes

9th Nov – 23:23
The last time I met Emily Dickinson in my dreams we had coffee and ice cream, and I taught her how to fake sanity, and tea and cake, and she taught me how to behave.

11th Nov – 04:46
Stared into my own eyes from the outside for the first time in a long time. Misty moonlight reflection in the window pane. A face lino printed on glass. She looks old. Exhausted. She’s got those wild eyes. Traumatised. Who the fuck are you? I said. She didn’t reply. Her face crumpled in on itself.

12th Nov – 18:50
I don’t need to explain to you why I reacted the way that I did
when you came up behind me and dug your fingers in my ribs.
I don’t want to anyway; even if I have to, I won’t:
My trauma bores me. I am sick of repeating sad stories.

16th Nov – 09:26
Drowning in a sea / that I don’t remember diving into / found myself / once again / in dire straits / too far away / and sinking / slowly / I can see nothing / and sinking / quickly / nothing but your face / and sinking / deadweight / it seems that all of my memories / have been erased by the waves / except the ones / of you


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