dear journal,

you never were good at communication, where letting words rot behind your teeth seemed like a good way to weed out bad influences. You never believed in the power of the right word, anyway. I mean, who cares? little boat, big sea. Little boat, big sea. You're bound to drown eventually, and no one will know how you felt; unshakably wet with it, abstract, and all your clothes are heavy. But there are some days when explaining yourself seems easy, as if you might wake up and everyone your know lives in you. Your friends wont care that you're hard-to-come-by; they'll understand you're being threatened daily by a choice of words. Who knows? one might come out your throat sharp as hell, and god knows you've got a lot of blood to lose. Your friends know that. Your lover. Take a hard swallow.

But most of the time it feels like a wet rug on your tongue. Rub-a-dub-dub.

honestly,

it will never go away; love is a flea.

Erin