heart has nothing to do with it
i hate that the only place you'll ever know as home is yourself.
and that your house, your family, your life, can feel like a prison.
the way glass shatters across a tile floor, that's how life is.
each little piece glinting, reflecting images of how you could be or how you were.
each tiny image of yourself distorted and broken against the grout cracks and the cold marble.
some pieces are bigger than the others, obviously,
but the smallest ones are always the most convoluted,
with a twistingly morbid sense of detail.
the prettier the point, the deeper the cut.
its that all-roses-have-thorns-you-know.

i hate this so much, wishing i was anywhere but here, but with no actual place to end up.
if only for the journey, i'd like to never come back.
because having a fixed destination is most definitely, and completely and utterly compromised, because no matter what road you take, you'll just end up where you wanted to go in the first place.
and isn't that just dandy.
i absolutely cannot stand the feeling of having my future decided for me.

if human beings are anything, they for sure aren't obedient.
i guess we live for the revolution.



and as a side note:
shittiest new year's ever.

glimpsed a bat with butterfly wings