these thoughts are unfinished

but aren't thoughts usually?

idk. my whole family is in mourning. you feel it in the spaces where pancakes are made and the rooms where you shave. I can see it behind the eyes too tired to properly pretend. the smile overworked and underpaid. the quietly shaking hands aching to be still, but only after they have released. our betraying bodies, loyal only to the truth.

overworked & underpaid.

a bottle of wine bone dry. no glasses clinked most evenings, just the same pair of lips seeking reprieve, she never finds it. the spirit drowning, in spirits.

this woke me from my sleep, i’m not sure who wanted me to say this or why.

i am trying not to filter so much these days, letting things be what they may. fuck it.

i know everyones family’s got something. siblings resentments, secrets buried at the bottom of the ocean, or maybe still falling. children’s resentments too. parents who did their best even though…never mind. I am not a parent yet, i wont throw stones.

—

i’ve been mothering myself for years. I mother my plants, my friends, i mother jaicab, i mother my sisters, i mothered my brother, i mother my mom. I don’t think i’m doing the best there. I’m not a parent yet.

everyones grieving. but in their own rooms kinda thing. except the rooms are spread out across the country.

they used to tell me i was the peace maker. that I could make everything feel good. and light.

overworked & underpaid. & underaged. for a while.

for the future, don’t tell a kid that. i promise they’ll make it their only mission to see you happy. and if you do, give them a manual or some footnotes, something to let them know that when peace doesn’t come, it isn’t because of them.

contort, fold, mold, break. snap. die. over and over. it only works sometimes. 
and only for some time, the peace bringing.

how do you bring peace to active war? to a battle that began way before you.

—

more than anything i want to see my family win. i want to see their joy. their peace, sustained.

eyelashes, coins gathered at the base of wells, toothfairies, wishbones, shooting stars, 1111’s, birthday candles, on my knees hands clasped and eyes shut tight, deep in the forests, beneath a wave, staring into a fire, bursting from the seams of all of my journals, deep in a meditation, at the height of an orgasm— I wish.

i’ve put down some of the luggage. it’s hard to let go sometimes. to remember whats yours and whats mine. i am always wishing though, i think they’re tired of me, maybe my wishes are tired too.