Katja Millay

My phone is on my bed, whispering in my ear like a bottle of scotch to a recovering alcoholic, while the rain continues cackling at me through my window.

I'd watch her, amazed at just how much a person could accomplish fueled by tea and regret.

My jealousy is a living thing. Shifting, changing, growing. Like my rage and my mother's regret.

People who have never been through any sort of shit always assume that they know how you should react to having your life destroyed. And the people who have been through shit think you're suppose to deal with it the exact same way they did. As if there's a playbook for surviving hell.

I think I__l stay in pieces. I can shift them, rearrange, depending on the day, depending on what I need to be. I can change on a whim and be so many different girls and none of them has to be me.

I didn't belong in this world anymore. It's not that I wanted to be dead, I just felt like I should be.

But you can only go so long being angry before you learn to hate.