"In the Arms of Another Day"

Please don't ask me to write anymore. I don't know if I can. And also don't ask me to sing, 'cause I'm losing my voice. Or maybe just losing heart. And I can't drive at all. Let me do things on my own terms. Call my name and hold my hands and kiss my lips and hold me near you, please, that's fine, but let me do things on my own terms. Avery won't do anything until she is dead, and Kaitlyn won't do anything until she's out of her pajamas, and I won't do anything until I want to. I guess that's why we're friends, Avery and Kaitlyn and I: We're stubborn.


I'm just going to vacuum this whole house because I'm the best daughter, no other reason. Jklol; I totally have ulterior motives.


Let me google what I want to. Let me google "Burberry Acoustic" and "Andrew Garfield" and "chemistry puns" and "cat pictures." I don't want to learn about the Nazi invasion of France right now. I want to read Scott Pilgrim comics and I'm still trying to get used to this skin I was given.


I miss the ocean and I miss my youth, so let me mope.


No one calls me back anymore. I'm not interesting enough. I tell myself that I'm far too interesting, really, but that's just so that I can sleep at night.


I do listen when you talk. I promise what you say is powerful. I want to write swear words, but I know that people will read them and that people will not approve of me. I suppose it shouldn't matter because no one approves of anyone else anyway.


Look at the salmon in the koi pond and watch me eat them raw. "I like it because it is bitter and because it is my heart."


I'm not depressed or unwell. I'm just tired and I can't play the piano and I can't set priorities: to write French or to write plays? Fifty points should mean something, but it doesn't. Not yet. So I write nothing at all. Except this, and does this count, even?


"I'm trapped, but I want to be trapped." Sort of.


You will rule the whole world soon, I feel like.
All my love,
Addy


P.S. 100 followers? Holla!

Oh, look. A golden slipper.

Do I give my heart too quickly? Too easily?


And then I am just another statistic. Another number, another name, another something for you to throw around to impress everyone. Just like you impressed me, but now it's just exhausting. 


So I've tossed my heart and my soul in another direction -- of course I've given my heart; what was I supposed to do with it? Keep it inside of me? -- and I think that maybe if I never, ever, ever stop running, never stop going, never stop singing or moving or making everyone else look perfect, then you can never catch up with me. You can never catch up with me. You can't even hinder my progress.


Because look at me: Look at what I have achieved.


I am untouchable and invincible and unstoppable. I am running on empty, but I don't need anything to fill me up. And look at them! Look at how beautiful they are! I did that.


I have a million words and a thousand costumes and a whole lot of hair. Try and catch me now.


I don't even know what adjective I'm looking for.
All my love,
Addy