Clover hearted

The rainbow spilling in through your window

A feel-good chapter about authenticity.
No TWs

Letters from home
I think that's what I wanted most, to feel like myself again. That's all I'm ever looking for.
When I think of "Elliot" I think of a list of traits and when I am not checking those boxes I don't know how to sit with myself without hiding.
I didn't feel like myself so I crawled under the floorboards and didn't speak to anyone for weeks. I didn't feel like myself because I don't know what I am today and by next week I could be a different person who is entirely worse. I didn't feel like myself so I taught myself how to slam my head onto things without making too much of a sound.
In these poems I may stray but I have lived to write stories about always returning home in the end.
I did things I didn't want to do so I could feel like a person again.
I turned on the shower and sat under the hot water while playing that pretentious indie song on repeat. I embarrassed myself because I am molding myself into someone who isn't ashamed of walking on his toes. I wore ridiculous outfits and painted my face even though it looked bad. I talked to you about things that I told myself were not worth speaking over. I came to your house even though I would rather sink into my bedroom floor. I was horribly excited about stupid, silly, and selfish things.
When I returned home I rearranged my entire bedroom just to throw piles of Laundry on the floor. I wrote poems on the walls, I hung up pictures of people who don't know me on the ceiling. I painted things on the walls that were ugly but I didn't care because I painted them.
Welcome home Elliot, oh how this house has been missing you, I am delighted every time you find your way back.

Cringecore
I have written this poem six hundred times and I'll write it again because being weird in a way that doesn't care if it's in the good way or bad way is a happiness unlike any other.
I'll write that poem, the poem that is pretentious and rambling and believing itself to be better than it really is. I'll write using metaphors that don't make sense and metaphors that I've used before. I believe every single one of them is a divine perfectly crafted collection of words and nothing will tell me otherwise. I'm writing two books right now, I'm curious as to how many books one can write at once.
I roll onto my back and begin talking and talking and talking about this indie band you need to listen to. You'll roll your eyes at me and tell me that you've already heard them because I've played this song two hundred and ninety six times.
I flap my hands and walk on my toes. I rock myself and suck my thumb. I repeat the same phrases over and over again despite them being senseless.
I draw strange designs on my face like hearts and triangles. I wear skirts with my unshaven legs. I paint faded designs on my t-shirts. I stack my wrists with colorful bracelets.
I'll daydream about a man running his fingers through my hair and being loved without ever being touched. I will tell you about this guy who's so pretty and doesn't know my name. You ask me why I like guys who look like girls and I'll smile at you and I'll recite a silly quote about that being as god intended.
I refuse to grow up, I'll sleep with a teddy bear and have dreams about buying plushies at thrift stores. I will embrace my childlike nature and be unashamed of my joy.
It is horrifically embarrassing, motifying even, and by god it is enjoyable like a feeling I have been looking for my entire life.