I’m Glad I’m a Lady, Because I Might Not Otherwise Have Learned To Braid / Maybe I’ll Look Back On This One Day and Smile, Slightly.

I always thought it was something. Here at the end I can only wish for something more tangible, as our timeline has split into yet another thin tangent: the prince, the pauper, the second after a forgotten dream, and so on. The space directly behind my forehead fills with a sort-of meta sorrow, forcing out existential expletives.

Extracting lessons from hardship mutates sorrow into sick joy, which settles into the space directly behind the space directly behind my forehead. Still shapeless, this lesson laces itself wherever it can and cannibalizes itself when necessary. It might also dissipate, shamefully, as happier times trot in. Which makes it meaningless.

For better or worse, I no longer have you living permanently among my influences. This is the good mourning.


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