December began with a hitched breath

usually, i dislike the cold

Friday: i feel torn between embracing loneliness, letting it devour me wholly, and accepting the hand that has been held out for me once more. being misfit is like a drug to the artist i consider myself to be.

Sunday: hatred burns deeply in my belly. it’s a comforting ache, like working against a strained muscle. it’s a hunger for war. i want to burn down bridges. i wonder what will be the stick to break the camel’s back this time around. and who will feel my recoil.