Only on Tuesdays.

Strangeways lost me going somewhere
walking on and into the drift of your attention
I haven't got a leg to stand on
nothing going, nowhere doing
my hands are still at my sides

it's difficult to tell whether I care or do not care, even for me.

loneliness and pride and despair
sadness and fear and repetition of desires

I have been told many things about myself

The two most common are that I am small and weak

And that I am frightening and dangerous


I hate both in equal measure


I am neither, ultimately. I want people to know that I am as afraid as they are, or rather, I wish that I didn't have to tell them that. I wish people could just accept me and let me exist and not crush me under the weight of their expectations.

I hate being told that I am small, even in admiring terms. I like being made of twigs and leaves, I like not taking up much space. I hate being reminded that my state is one that people desire because it appeals to the greater public aesthetic. I hate being reminded that the gap between my actual state and my internal sensation is so vast.

And I do not like being told that I am dangerous. Full stop. I know when the things I say may reflect badly on others. I know when teasing is too much. There's a reason I don't tease more.

cut it out cut it out cut it out cut it all

To be clear, it's not that I have regrets. Well.

Not entirely. Knowing now the consequences, there are certainly still things I might do,

With you
(probably)

I might let you touch me
I might be tempted to ask what if

What if I didn't
Or what if I did

There are things I would not permit, damage I would prefer
to avoid, if I could
(probably)

I would forbid myself from letting my life be chewed away
Mouthful by sweet and tender mouthful

For certain.
That change, I would make.