(death butterflies: an interlude)

February 10, 2015

there’s a little voice in my head that dances around saying I don’t know why I thought I’d be good at this. I don’t know why I thought I’d be good at anything.

underneath it are uglier, quiet words about failure and expectations of, based on a thread of despair of knowing I’m unfixable and will fuck everything up by blundering around being sick. which I cannot truly help. it translates, generally, to I fuck my life up by existing.

and despair.

capture that miraculous little death-butterfly, love, and pinion it into a squashy armchair in your comfortable mind-parlour, drop a lap-blanket over it and push a mug of tea into its hands. perch on the arm of the chair, on both arms, and feed it biscuits. shortbread. jammy tarts. say soothing things. top up its tea. make it feel loved.

threads of despair are for comforting.

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