That last entry was incomplete & may very well stay that way indefinitely.

I should be sleeping.

Just finished up a 14 & have got to be up at 6 to open the store.

So much in this mind.

land minds.

land mine.

my mind.

mine.

It became easier to forget than it ever was to remember.

Remembering brings the funk.

The low down dirty indigo funk that wraps me up & smothers me & threatens not to release.

I convinced myself I was too strong to feel anything about any of it, strong enough to let it go & when it's brought to my attention I'm like a little kid.

My mouth hangs slack & I stare at my shoes.

Pick at an invisible piece of lint, a shredded cuticle, the hem of my shirt.

Find myself mumbling, "I don't know."

An awful lot.

Find I really don't want to talk about it, but at the same time I do.

I want to scream about it, unhinge my jaw & just start screaming.

Want somebody I love to help absolve me of someone else's sins.

Sins that aren't mine to pay for.

All the same, I can't seem to forgive myself.

As a child I could cry.

I needed no reasons.

There were walls between me & everyone I loved.

I felt very alone ... heavy with the knowledge of my filthy hands.

I was scared of things, people, especially strange men ... extra smiles for them, please don't hurt me, don't come close enough to touch shy, but seeking acceptance, begging for praise.

tell me i'm good enough.

tell me i'm clean.

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