Jenny Slate

I am heartbroken over no one, over having nobody to wish for, nobody to hope for. I am heartbroken, usually, over someone. Now I am heartbroken over no one.

Life has been so discouraging that I have forgotten why and how to fantasize, and I feel weak.

But what am I supposed to do with all of the parts of my heart that are only there to be given?

You are on the very outskirts of the edge of where my waves hit.

And so I sit here with waves crashing and repeating, and all I can do is wait and hope that eventually my sea will cough up some shell with a shape like a swirl of sound and I will look anew and I will listen better.

life is the beach in the winter.

I was actually just a melting chair with nobody left to sit in it. I was a useless ruined form yelling SIT ON ME PLEASE PUT YOUR WEIGHT ON ME in a worthless pointless voice that sounded like a fart under the covers.

I am tired of throwing a tarp over some of my personality so that the shape of my identity suits some gross man a little better

I have many grievances and no place to set them down, and I am cranky from having to shoulder this burden of reactions, like I am a fucking Ox that should carry your unsellable wares

the person who knew nothing about their love’s extra love, but walked up and down on the words of that love every day, not knowing that little strips of their partner’s heart were underneath their feet, promised to someone else.