don't write.

so i guess it's fine when you're not the focus. i've already said it's none of my business and especially to you i wouldn't say if i cared to make it, going for chlorine behind our backs. i don't even understand where the need comes from, call a council, a trial, a jury, a hearing for something no one would ever bat an eye at, but i've already seen the consequences again and there's nothing that could get me to sit at that round table (i'll keep playing morgana as long as you paint me that way, no matter how many times you switch up on me). and i don't even want to think about it anymore, thought i covered it up but you keep acting like you're not slicing up the canvas to show the wood frame below. it makes me want to vomit the way you're getting things you don't deserve and i keep praying for the plagues to come down on your house when it's been so long since i've been this spiteful. i counted back to the last time and realized it was two years ago, counted back again, kept counting back, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.... guess it was just overdue. it twists my stomach to ignore your complicity against me but i cant choose sides with more conviction so i'm back at the conclusion i drew two, four, six, ten years ago — if i keep my mouth shut it can't happen again. it's only when i start pulling the stitches loose that these things happen, so i'll keep myself under lock and key — or burst under the pressure like a beer can forgotten in the freezer and my insides melting all over the room. i'm thinking it'll probably be the latter.

— mar.