it's like this thing was devastating.

it's probably just that i've been alone, and thereby unguarded from my own ridiculous propensities, for three days now. but something about...engagement with making this series of poems into a chapbook is hurting. it's like, i look at it, and i'm proud of myself, and then at the same time it hurts, and i don't have room to feel anything else. it's like something's been ripped from me.

which sounds cliche beyond words, but it's true.

so weird. so weird.