violent libraries, really only

I said a very long time ago, that I would find my voice. I would conquer all the evils that haunt my head. I get so caught up in everything, but nothing comes out. I try to write on paper, but I need lines, and then they feel lonely. I try to write to the white spaces, but they're violent, and all those silent eyes. I'm too in control, madly. I can't even write to you, and I can't even say hello. I'm just a storm. sometimes I lose my mind, and sometimes you will feel it, but not for a very long time now. I try to keep it all under wraps, until I couldn't speak.

fuck—too messy, too clean, too straightforward. fuck—I am an engine of angles. fuck—I can't commit to any more than a ghost of a sentence. I said I would find my voice, and I said I would write for chelsea. and maybe I just need to get started, to be warming up a beast.

I want to say everything. I want to help. I want to be helped. I want to be heard.

but then, still, I feel suppressed by an army of eyes. I've never been any one way. so I keep my secrets here, bad colours, maybe.

anything important...my brain just freezes up. I'm always lost in projects, small nothings. I'm shy. I get more anxious with words. I'm going to be.

I will explain everything. I really will write for chelsea.