it’s pretty, isn’t it? the kind of phrase you’d like to caption yourself with, figuratively or, nowadays, literally.
it crossed my mind. a pretty phrase to attach to me. but I don’t. I can deny almost anything, but I can’t go so far as to deny that. for instance, when did I start saying fuck so much? I used to cringe at my dad's slip of the word, anger behind it, preventing a substitution stupidly euphemistic. now I hear it fall from own mouth, word vomit. a reflex, really, and I see it out on the ground and just have to let it lie there.
I think I do. sometimes. then I catch myself flattering when flattery is ingratiating and vacuous, laughing with my mouth when my eyes are not, agreeing with things I find wholly disagreeable, trying to meet expectations that someone I don’t know set out for me with grandiosity.
yeah, it’s pretty, but it isn’t it. it can’t be. i’m comfortable that I could go through my whole life and not know my/thyself. i change, equivocate. yeah, comfortable with that.
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