November 2011
5 posts
2 tags
what else can i tell you? it is warm outside. i’m thinking of dreamy, slept-in beds, and an unsteady finger drawing a line down the underside of my wrist. deep eyes, deep thoughts. deepthoughts. we aren’t as complex as we all think we are; we glance at each other from across a row of parked cars, we smile over the heads of dandelions on a slope, and we’re still trying to sleep at...
4 tags
There must be a million seeds in this tiny little orange.
It is going to rain. I am thinking about a boy who doesn’t love me plucking eggshells out of my hair. It was the first time I’d ever been to a football game, yesterday, and I’d brought an umbrella and I had a bunch of little oranges with me in my purse, and I’d worn these gorgeous, but impractical, three-inch-heeled boots. Everything...
all we really have are soapy fingers clinging to anything rough at the edges, tattered and glamorously broken. glazed eyes and mussed hair. clinging tight to our own skin. washed away feelings of the amorous variety, we know what we’re doing, we always did.
“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter....”
– Kurt Vonnegut (God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater)
October 2011
4 posts
4 tags
47.
we skipped all our classes and talked all night and you lined up little mounds of ash on my bare arms as i listened to sad songs. we fell asleep on the ground, and we must have said a million things to each other while we were asleep because i don’t remember ever talking to you when i’m awake and conscious and feeling. i dreamed that i was watching some people i knew long long ago...
4 tags
46.
It’s rainy and dripping and all sorts of grey, and I’m feeling a bit romantic, a bit crooked, like all my joints aren’t connected fully, like my skin is stretched too tight over my bones. My little surges of sentimentality, of nostalgia have completely abandoned me these days, and I find myself on window ledges a lot. There’s never anything to look at except empty parking...
3 tags
45.
such modern people with such modern love interests. my one-line hopes and my four-letter soul. i wrote suicide notes and left them on the fridge this weekend, then took them back down when you still didn’t come home by morning. i left a magnet out of place, hoping you would notice. we are modern people with modern love interests, we are, everything about us is illegitimate and ugly and wrong...
3 tags
44.
i don’t understand how to make conversation i really really don’t and the boy i might have known from somewhere at some point touches my shoulder softly and walks away. he is tall nonchalant half-smiling, and he is tall tall tall. i say ‘yeah, see you around’ a whole minute after he turns his back. i sit on some steps and pull at the loose skin around my fingernails because...
September 2011
33 posts
3 tags
43.
even though i hold grudges and you secretly hate me, when we make french toast at 1 AM and talk about how much we hate the world and how senselessly miserable we are, it is all okay somehow. you leave the dishes in the sink and i snap at you for something trivial and irrelevant, but it’s a haphazard kind of place, and we are haphazard kind of people. we are sitting on the only clean patch of...
3 tags
42.
i am lying in bed thinking about how nice it must be to float, to be completely perfect and empty, how in the end i want more stories than lovers. mostly i want to stay in one perfect position for one perfect second and watch the sunlight slant through the window onto my skin, until i am tipping the balance imperceptibly, leaning over imaginary edges so so slightly, just until the tips of my hair...
4 tags
41.
it’s disconcerting really, how you remember everything i’ve ever said, how i laughed that one day when we were walking past some expensive coffee shop and i said i wanted the pinkest fucking drink they had with a huge fluff of whipped cream on the top and i wanted to pay nearly six dollars for it and walk around the streets sipping it while bums leered at me and waved cardboard signs...
3 tags
40.
bare legs stretched out in the sun, yes we are very much alive, it’s warm, and it is close enough. hands tucked in back pockets all the same. faces turned to stoplights green and yellow and red, yes now go, go go go the colors are changing so that means we must move too. eyes on shop windows across the street, on the blue hem of a girl’s shifting skirt. we are very much all the same,...
2 tags
hey danger, hey desperation, when we’ve stopped running after leaving buses and stopped chasing after pretty words by pretty people and stopped stopping midway, we will wake up underground maybe, and learn how to retrace our steps and keep double time properly.
i realized it wasn’t because i was running too fast, it was that the ground didn’t stay underneath my feet for a long...
3 tags
“I love you to pieces, distractions, etc.”
– Franny & Zooey, by J.D Salinger (via tomthirst)
5 tags
39.
Stolen utensils heavy in my purse and little packets of sugar in your jean pockets, just because we liked stealing, liked tilting the sidewalks we stood on and gripping the dirt a little tighter with our heels. We’re changing, that’s what we’re doing, waking up a little and feeling our sleepy bones hum to life and pinch our skin tight with shaky laughter. Wonder and laugh at...
3 tags
38.
crimes of passion on our minds as we clutch our generic brand pill bottles. we don’t think about the things hidden behind our bathroom mirrors, and of course we don’t look back at the reflections of our almost lovers, flecked with toothpaste stains.
friction is keeping me going. or is it motion? loopholes, better fix those loopholes. i’m a loophole of a person, now just ignore...
3 tags
conversations, one-sided
well, in cosmic terms, some girl in my english class says.
and well, in cosmic terms, we are. we are? we are not. we look up at the night sky and only see patterns and look, there’s that star and that planet they have names and shit and we live on one of those things, a planet, don’t we? we live, don’t we? everything has a name and everything is numbered and everything orbits...
5 tags
37.
i think about those days when we used to trash talk in the laundry rooms on the second floor. we sat on the rusted benches giving serious, solemn looks to the people we didn’t recognize who dragged their clothes here, and then we gave each other serious, solemn looks. we talked about people we didn’t care about and people who didn’t care about us and the people who left us...
11 tags
3 tags
36.
sometimes on gray mornings, we looked out at lighthouses in the distance just to conjure up foggy white-tipped feelings that changed with the tides changed with our salty sighs. we practiced seeing out of one eye and standing on one foot and breathing out of one lung. we prepared ourselves for a sudden death, and swore against last goodbyes. hello, rather. hello, at last. we are seeing each other...
3 tags
we have a vague, aching kind of consciousness tied to our waists and outlining patterns in our skin. we try so hard to make fashion statements with our exaggerated sighs and melancholy gazes that we wore anywhere but our sleeves. we will not vanish, we won’t, even though we try to sometimes and only speak in tautologies and play the wrong chords and see the wrong signs written in the skies....
5 tags
35.
i fell in love underneath the yellowing trees and your falling hair, falling falling falling everywhere around your shoulders grazing your collar bones cupping your face. breathing machines and anthropomorphized human beings. you are also an invention, from lace and jump ropes and knots tied in the backs of dresses.
abandon all semblance of tense consistency, because we are, we were, we will be,...
6 tags
34.
self-inflicted papercuts running down my vital organs, subtly, secretly though, and i think i still have some time, i’m still holding up my two fingers trying to gauge distances, pretending everything can be blotted out with my thumb. close one eye, knuckles to your nose, and the sun is just a red haze peaking over your fingertips. corners, corners, corners, don’t ever look at the real...
4 tags
33.
Everything loses its glamour and lovely little plastic coating after a day, and what an absolutely catatonic day. I sat around trying to type up a lab report that didn’t sound like a melodrama and boarded up some windows and waited for you to casually stop by and come over because you just happened to be in the neighborhood and sort of kind of maybe wanted to see me. I don’t hope, I...
3 tags
32.
we’re all slow dancing under skyscrapers and writing poems the seven-digit kind on somebody else’s hand with not so permanent markers and watching people crisscross our lives leaving scrapes and dents and hollows.
girls in boots and summer dresses and boys tangled in large headphones. boys thinking about girls thinking about boys and girls thinking about life. girls thinking about...
4 tags
4 tags
31.
we’ll crash our shiny convertibles into the edge of the horizon and laugh at those silly people sitting behind windows because it’s okay, it’s all okay as long as we have the wind in our hair and the sky on our shoulders. we’ll line up our rainboots at the door and leave our dripping umbrellas on the steps as we outrun storms in a frenzy of self-realization in the form of...
1 tag
3 tags
it’s a lovely, but lonely kind of day. feelings, words all lining up down my spine. up? down? but that’s silly, i’m forever changing my mind, rearranging the things on my shelves, the mismatched ledges in my mind. alphabetical order, largest to smallest, date of publication—methodical ways to deny that you have humanity thrumming through your veins. nineteen years and...
2 tags
“In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day...”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald (via thenocturnals)
3 tags
30.
Because in the end we are coincidental, we are incidental, accidental beings so it makes no sense at all for me to walk up and down that same street everyday, a huge book under my arms like always, hoping to run into you and your ironic little sneer. It doesn’t it won’t it can’t but I do and I always see you and you laugh at me and call me things and I have to hide my smiles in the crook of my...
5 tags
29.
I’m tired of puncturing holes in the underside of my palms just so I can breathe. Maybe it’s time I learned how to skip rocks properly. Will you still come by and visit me? When I’ve permanently moved to that place where the sky and the sea meet with a lingering touch of uncertain fingers and foamy skirts? When I’ve finally disappeared, along with all the rocks I’ve flung into the same water we...
4 tags
28.
I call everyone lovely and darling and Becca darling laughs uncomfortably. Hey baby let me read your palm for you, oh it’s just as I thought, that’s too bad, it seems you’re going to drop out of school and never get married, but baby girl I’m just full of shit, let’s get married okay? You want to? Let’s go, okay? I have an empty red cup in my hand and I’m wearing a dress that’s tight and black and...
2 tags
3 tags
27.
I mouthed the words today. The words I’m not supposed to say, ever.
Is it today yet? Tell me when it’s today, will you? I’m trying as hard as I can, I’m diligently crossing out all the little boxes, but we just keep missing each other, me and this today. We were supposed to meet at a street corner at 3:00 and secretly glance at each other over the tops of our newspapers. Nod in acknowledgement,...
3 tags
26.
My mom said my arms looked thinner. But that’s because these days all I consume is coffee and plastic pen caps. I wonder just how much ink I’ve swallowed in French class alone. Backwards poems in my stomach and upside-down run-on sentences run-on paragraphs down my esophagus. Now there’s an idea—run run run, oh if only. But if I look down and quietly chew my pens, it’s okay. I’ll get through...
4 tags
25.
white-out on the tips of my fingers but i’m tired of fixing my mistakes when other people’s rules don’t mean anything to me. cross-outs and angry strike-throughs and scribbles in corners, inconsistent hyphenations and lazy paper airplane trails looping through my heavy half-cursive scrawl and sometimes i’ll dot my i’s dot my eyes if i feel like it. most of the time i...
August 2011
100 posts
3 tags
24.
I need to learn how to walk more slowly. I always get everywhere much too quickly. Girls in loose shirts standing under breezy trees, and the smell of cigarettes hanging in the air. I hate the smell, but everyone smokes here, and I always think cigarette smoke smells like heartache, smells like the things we thought we left behind but didn’t really because they’re right there, right there in front...
4 tags
23.
We used to sit in the backseats of cars and wonder where we were going, where we weren’t going. Neither of us were going anywhere because we just sat in the backseat and waved out the windows at people we didn’t know and listened to static on the radio. Or maybe it was just the sound of our unbreathing from our pseudo-lungs, rubberband balls bringing down pieces of the ceiling with its every...
4 tags
22.
I played them Debussy on an out of tune keyboard with stuck-together keys. That was lovely, lovely they said, and I think inside I am just soap, cleaning out all the obscenities and makeshift parts and fatally romantic hopes before I spew them out in E major on something that was broken to begin with.
I tapped my temples today, and I heard nothing. I tapped the center of my chest and my kneecaps....
2 tags
“Sometimes, I feel like I’m not solid. I’m hollow; there’s nothing behind my...”
– Sylvia Plath (via mentevacia)
4 tags
Let me tell you the saddest story I know. There’s this girl sitting in her room, which has altogether too much blue in it and she doesn’t even like the color blue all that much. But she’s sitting there alone in her apartment, with a splinter in her finger from a fucking shish kebab she ate yesterday, just sitting there romanticizing suicide or death or something because that’s just what she does...
2 tags
