jennyeatsbabies.

Today is a sad jenny day.

I haven’t been writing lately, and sometimes I think it’s because I’m terrified. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I love who I’ve become—but most of the time I hate that everyone doesn’t. 

“You have some writing chops” my brother said to me at my birthday dinner: preceding his lecture of the worthlessness that I would eventually become.

Sometimes I wonder if I would ever be great—at video games at tetris at writing at life and charisma and sometimes I wonder if I would ever really be my father’s daughter, or if that too was such a false remedy for a child so unrefined.

My brothers played with fire and I with ice—and in passion they grew, but coldness I became fond of and sometimes, sometimes I wonder if this alone became my lacking: if this was what drew my loneliness from my heart and broke me too soon to ever become great.