madonna expressed

self-scrutiny has succumbed to sickening self evaluation of worthiness. my therapist asks so what? when i turn inward and die from incessant insecurity instigating some shallow version i believe i need to be to be better. to be digestible. i float my head out my window turned up skyward to exhale the smoke i have convinced myself will make me feel happier. to implore my languid body. to posture something excitable within this morbidity i have wrapped myself in. smoke. stretch. change the battery on my night stand toy for a few minutes of something meaningless. sometimes it doesn’t work. sometimes it does. lately, i cut the string. no longer invested in the untangling of it. i let the story end. these shiny scissors reflected the darkening death of the string, now unilluminated by that desire to be seen. so what? i see myself in the corner of hand written notes tacked on my vanity mirror. i see myself in the collage of magnets on my refrigerator from my tour de west. i see myself in the portrait a lover drew of me when i wasn't looking. this sight cost me everything. i paid the piper i brought the genie my wishes i burnt down my pompeii to remember rome was not built in a day or even a year. i told a stranger my saturn return was beginning but i’ve learned it is actually ending. so what?