hey hey, it’s ok to not be ok.

She got the flavor of toxic positivity. I wish I got that one. Instead my wrapper didn’t have a bow n’ arrow with a star, I got the fueled-by-spite and severe daddy issues flavor. I’m incapable of trusting anyone deeply so I overcompensate by making them trust me deeply. I was dragged by my hair through gravel by the monster I thought was a man, who I loved so I fall in love quickly because it’s fun and I know it’ll end soon. The sooner it ends, the safer I feel. My flavor of trauma isn’t thoughts of unaliving myself or overthinking about the thoughts or feelings of others. No, mine tastes like a constant need of control. Misplaced items send me tweaking. Some people mix theirs with some addictions, not me, the lack of addictions is more my jam. Outside of the tattoos covering my body, commitments are the lingering ghosts of this mixing bowl I call an existence.