I can’t bend my back like this for too long. It hurts. My hands have left rosey imprints on cheeks and my face is warm and wet. If I didn’t respect my things, as much as I did yours, there would be much broken glass on the floor from that wall, there. The walls in my room, not yours. I could never go back to that apartment. There isn’t a bed I feel at home in anymore and I feel as if I am starting over, in April. This time, it is me at the end of the string and these somber outbursts continue, 1 year later. Simply knowing that your mind works in circles, circle around the shape of her breast, and hers, and those, there. There is nothing fulfilling about being an average woman. There is nothing beautiful about trying to be plain, simple. These decades are putrid and I am tired of yanking the chains on my ankles trying to keep up with that beautifully haunting line of half-dressed females over there. I don’t conform well to humans nor to the ways in which I should walk, speak, or wear. There is something you love about conformity, don’t you? Don’t be bashful – my tears don’t mean a thing to you. Ignore me, please. Continue. I have always felt relief listening to young men try to act different from their male counterparts- yet they follow the same script when they try. How old is that script now anyway? Mh. It must be at least 13 months old – if the time adds up right.