I don’t live for anybody else. I don’t do anything for anybody else. I’m a very very very selfish human being, and I intend on keeping it that way because of people like you. You, who shows up in my life with pretty words and pearls and fills me with warm sepia and languages and songs from decades passed. You pull galaxies from my chest and then run and hide and keep them for yourself and your pretty little life in a pretty little town.
You, who peels away my tenderness like old paint. You, who pulls on guilt and fear and intimidation. You, who drives me screaming and angry in the morning, smoke filled eyes and slamming doors at 7:00 AM. I’ve buried you.
I write for myself. I bleed for no one. I am a fucking queen.