The truth is where we lie.
My life is not an object for me to do with as I please.
We argue about how things really are, ignoring the subjectivity of truth. It is futile.
You climbed through me like I was a window.
I wish I could have gone with you.
If I can’t be your lover, then I would like to be your friend. I just wish you hadn’t started in my heart only to work your way out. It has left me feeling stretched and hollow.
Flooded with sounds and images. I’m drowning in voices other than my own.
My home is where your heart is.
Sometimes freedom feels like neglect.
I want something that I don’t know.
The lighting in your room was perfect. It allowed me to capture of you exactly what I wanted. I’m keeping it.