Dreams

Dreams

You told me I could follow my dreams and become whatever I deemed to be my own and true to my being, yet here I am crying as I type this in the bathroom. I’m mourning my dead dreams and struggling to catch my breath, hoping the lady in the next cubicle won’t hear me. She sits across me in the office and I fucking hate everyday of it. I hate the numbers and the rat race, chasing whatever it is we are all looking for…wealth, success, whatever nonsense it is. Last night I tried to tell you how I felt and you could sense it coming so you covered my pleas with your obnoxiously loud laugh that taunts me in my darkest moments. 

You told me I could be anything I wanted to be but how could I?

How could I follow my ‘filthy‘ dreams?

– K

Complexity

Complexity

I hate that superior complex that you have. Those moments that you seem to try and dominate every aspect of my life. I hate that you don’t want to acknowledge my presence and worth when I need you to. Like I’m some object for your pleasing. You like it when I doll myself up and sit next to you while you talk your business friends, sometimes – most of the time – you parade me around in front of them like an object they can’t obtain.  While I’m not an object,  objects don’t have feelings and well mine are hurt.

K