cuts

i cut, cut it in halves, cut it in quarters

no matter how often, no matter in what variation you try to put this thing together, you just can't

i started out with a plan, cut it in two, cut it in fours, and now i dont even know what im staring at.

it started when i opened my mouth. should've kept it shut, should not have cut, shoulda woulda coulda.

the torn corner is poking my eye, tearing down the flimsy layer, damaging the most sensitive parts, those that cannot be repaired.

*shoulda woulda coulda*

it's like a chant that keeps coming back to haunt you. my migraine has taken over most of my life, slashed through my head, sliced up my brain, and cut through straight to the bane of my existance.

i am not

i am not ready to talk about halls and color schemes and invitation prints

i am not ready to calculate and budget and schedule anything beyond next week

i am not ready to have insane amounts of money spent on any occasion when millions around me dont have food to eat, clothes to wear, and a school to attend

i am not ready, not able, not willing to put my life on hold

i am not ready to deal with the plethora of uncalled for advice

i am not, not yet, not now.

say hello to bridezilla

livid

tiny fragments of glass, the sharpest edges, the deadliest stare that can knock down an entire platoon of the highest form of men. i pity you and your promises.

sickly and grotesque bile-like masks that you wear, that i want to rip off from your face, rip to shreds like i want to do away with your inner confused pitiful pathetic core.

and then start anew.

WITHOUT having to wonder if the cycle will repeat. WITHOUT the possiblity of history repeating itself. WITHOUT knowing that this is not futile, not a waste of my time, not the beginning of the end.