memoirs of a poet

A few (partially edited) excerpts from my physical diary due to my four month long (possibly self-inflicted) writers block. Ahhhh vulnerability!! On the internet!! Screams the girl who meticulously chose the least yet most revealing quotes to type out for this lacklustre post.

‘He will frantically cling to my side when I prepare his food, desperately anticipating the same meal he had just mere hours before. He loves the monotony, so why shouldn’t I?’ (29/04/24)

‘A human girl surrounded by dirt and warmth and leaves and daises and green and blue and hot and cold seems quite pivotal to me. Everything is singing.’ (30/04/24)

‘Today I am grateful to my cat for being a living testament to the girl I am growing into.’ (24/06/24)

‘Today I am grateful that I held a book in my hands…and for [] for never failing to force me into stifling my laugh late at night when the world is asleep but we are alive.’ (25/06/24)

‘I feel like I’m not healing properly. Instead, I hold onto the girl I once was, the little girl who knew nothing of heartache. I buy myself stuffed animals, listen to songs that circled through my childhood, eat my breakfast off dinosaur plates and drink pink milk. Perhaps because I am scared of the woman I am becoming. I refuse to move on so instead I medicate myself with childish familiarity.’ (17/07/24)

‘They need to become material before they fizzle away into my abyss of lost ideas, pipe dreams, birthday wishes. Why does no one just want to read my diary? I am far more more honest here than anywhere else. I am a writer writing about wanting to write.’ (23/07/24)