Sunday, June 02, 2019

Dickensian palace of fuckthuggery

I was having an angry brood about the before ago and I spat that out. It's true—it's as good a description of one of my schools that I've spat. The events of then are thirty years gone—but they echo in the now.

It's fucked and debilitating. To be angered by past abuse is because you relived it. That magnificent gift of worthlessness and lack of agency.

I had nowhere safe to go—even alone because you're just alone with your stupid self. 

I can't see a way back to acceptance of that—save that it is a part of me as a bone or face. And to hate your body is self defeating because you didn't choose it; it was chosen for you. 

But to have shit hung on you for that absence of choice ... fuck...

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