Janice Marie Hawthorne had a strange daughter.


I feel myself changing.

I feel myself turning into a different being.

I feel myself looking at the blues like it was purple.

I feel myself letting go of the “unchangeable ones” like they were Tommy Hilfiger or something.

I feel myself growing around and into my heart.

I feel cold when I get hot at them.

I feel myself searching for more answers than questions.

I feel like I am in a movie.

I understand the value of silence.

I worry.

I feel vulnerable.

I feel very anxious.

I feel like I am waiting for something that is not being fair right now.

I feel approachable.

I feel pieces of new powers.

I feel very special, but I am a safe with being normal.

My mind misunderstands me.

I am scared to move back there.

I miss that baby in Kansas so much.

I feel change.

I feel bad for the Muggles.

I feel very poetic and scared to press “publish post”.

I gotta go to bed.

I feel alienated by the writer.

I understand cold showers.

I feel the hair pens bruising my scalp.

I feel bad for not smiling more.

I feel quirky alone.

I feel the ash around my mouth and ankles.

Sleep hates me.

I feel like I have to take control.

I feel shy when I am approached, even at home.

I feel safe.

I feel sad for theory.

I need new oxfords.

I feel my eyelashes touching the fat under my eyebrows.

I am really getting older inside.

I actually enjoy being wrong, it’s funny.

I feel like something won’t let me stop, even if I tried.

I feel like I am about to lose apart of me.

I feel completely out of control.

I am angry at her for editing this.

I feel my sweater slip into the palms of my hands.

I feel the wind knocking my hair out of order.

Time is cool.

I have a lot to say, but end up not saying it.

I feel politically incorrect.

I want to know the truth.

I feel like grandma did at Providence Medical Center.

I feel selfish and self-absorbed for all these “I”‘s.
I smell fall.

F?

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