i miss the time when words would roll off of my fingers so smoothly and sweetly. all that is left are mundane logs about my days and my loves. i strain to get the words back, perhaps this can be an avenue.
there is so much old stuff. . . my favorite piece is probably my bi poem, but i'm not bisexual. . . i'm not with that girl. . . i'm not even that person. and it all feels so dated.
we were sluts, by the way. we were cheating.