I feel not enough, but just barely. Not enough like in a recipe that calls for a cup and I’ve misjudged the amount, and I’m aware of it, but I don’t tap the edges, I don’t sift the flour, I don’t. I just throw it in, a little bit off, and I say ‘It’s good quality flour, you know. That’s the good stuff, this recipe is in good hands.

 I want to feel like a nudist. I want to feel untethered.

 Sometimes I scream at the filter I place on myself. Why is it out now and who threw the net it sure wasn’t me who made this big mess it sure as hell was me

 I “need” a man who I can run to and say “help me, I’ve forgotten who I am” and he can say anything, anything at all, and I’ll know. I’ll remember.

 Sometimes I ask him if I’ve stepped on his toes but I don’t think that I care, ok I guess maybe I do care.

 It’s so nice to not know things, I wish I knew less things, I wish I knew that I knew less things, I wish I knew that I knew less than I know that I know.

 I know not enough, but just barely, just barely.