Oh, and it's so strange with you Little Bird.

And yet not strange, not strange in the least.

I'm sat here disappointed because the play's off and I'll never get to show people how good I could be. How good I know that I could be, if I'd had a chance... and I won't get to be in the next plays, because my face doesn't fit and because I didn't do my best. I am angry and sick at heart and almost relieved, that I didn't balls it up. Because I think I might. I can't do the things I'm good at and care about too much because I overthink, and then maybe I'm not that good? MMcD sometimes helps, but she won't anymore now that the play's off, and I won't be in her next one because I was useless.

And Little Bird. Oh god, what about Little Bird.

I keep sighing when I think back. I can't (couldn't) articulate what I meant. I spin and yearn on here, and then on crisp cold nights over cigarettes behind a van I'm stilted and monosyllabic. And is it any wonder that when the bloods come, it's suddenly easier because of her having eased the passage? It's a shock to find. Now I just want to do all sorts of strange things for her. And there's marks on the back of my coat, and she... is beautiful. Consolidating all of those things I'd wreathed in ephemeral wants for years and I think I terrified her because I wasn't as I usually am, and she was as she always is. I should have known that this was why it wouldn't feel strange, to be so close to her, because it was the reality (this is Little Bird, Little Bird) and then a realisation (of course it's Little Bird; it could be noone else) that made it feel out of and inside of at once. And suddenly, there's things there that I am thinking that are redundant now. Like I want her, when I'm disappointed and angry, to go night walking with and curl up with on a sofa to watch some dross. And how her body is firm and soft (and it is) and pretending won't do so easily. How she can sleep on slate. How I've always thought she was beautiful (always, before and after and during).