Some days I’m myself.
Other days there’s a filter.
Or anger.
Or fake smiles.
Or brutal honesty.
Or the look that tells you to shut up and take your ass far far away from me.
Then there is my depressive mode and in those days I’m not myself.
I can be moulded and suppressed.
And the stories become true.
I write the worlds deep beneath the oil, the slickest the best.
The kind of dirt that sticks permanently under your nails.
Petroleum is the river.