Dirty Girl

 my computer is creeping onto death, and the files hold untitled documents that eats up my existing space.

I stopped writing or speaking out-loud

I became aware of my existence, and I really cared. 

I took pride before, for being unkept, unmanageable, and nothing but my own.

but there are women on the streets, each starting to look a lot like me, or me like them. 

and I can't comprehend anything.

I must have been somebody else the day before.

woken up in the same body but confronted with my own self. 

changed my name enough times to out run what ever part of me was being dissected by people who swore to love me more then god himself. 

but at some point you have to stop.

the joke has gone to far

and there is nothing left to cover up what is already happening 

the name has already been used, wrangled, and hung up to dry.

Im not sure what I'm trying to say anymore. my father told me to forget, that its been a month, I should be better, moved on. happy even. yet I can't help tripping over the shoelaces he never taught me how to tie. and now I'm stranded with centuries and story's of knots that eat away at the eroding chord.

not a poem, just notes