the fluffy kitten's stories

I used to spit bile and venom into the ether, to be read by faceless eyes.  I used to spin grotesque words into gruesome tales to show how I was feeling.  It was all blood and scars and dead eyes and soul torture and distress, dismay and pure fucking raging anger.  Some of it was eloquent in its horrors and some of it was less so, but the threads being weaved remained constant… vitriol at the world and at myself.

Now I have had my corners smoothly rounded, the edge is still there but it has found other outlets.  I have no energy to waste on hatred of the things that were in my head, of the things I couldn’t change, of the things that made no sense and I was glad they didn’t.  I am grateful that it seems a million years have passed.

I used to write filth.