Now I know what they were talking about when they said that being rejected (as a writer, as actor, as an artist) is the hardest thing in the world.

It was fine after the first twelve times. It was fine after the thirtieth. But after the two-hundredth time you really start to feel like there is sandpaper at the bottom of your diaphragm. Like your soul has been drank and thrown up on you. Your heart- torn thread by thread and made into a bow to shoot arrows at you with.

When you look at the list and see the name where you thought yours should be.

When you see the email that says your not fit, your not right..

And after more and more of them you start to feel as if your never going to be right. Because no matter how right it feels to your eyes its never going to look the same way in theirs. No matter how much you alter, you fix to make it seem the way they want it, it will always be pieces of you within it, and that’s what makes it so goddamn incredible.

Maybe when I start to feel as if I want to tug my head and body, grasp my legs into myself and fold into the ground below, I can stop and thank my pretty hands for creating myself to be so unbelievably diverse that I don’t have a home at any of these conveniently conventional places.

Nowhere to roam, nowhere to hide.

just fold yourself up,

jump inside

I’m still here waiting

for you to drop in

soon you’ll be translating

the song that’s about to begin


4 thoughts on “Blood

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