Not so lightly do I look for you,
at night in the moon and
in the morning with my coffee.

I find you not in songs,
or in the scent of fresh laundry,
but in the shape my body makes
when I feel most happy.

My truest self is June, 2014. I've just returned from France and I'm excited to simply wake up each morning having no idea where the **** I'll go with the rest of my life. I have no job, no real priorities, just curiosity. I'm still a ******. I've never told someone I loved them. I've got too many black clothes in my closet and I'm convinced I'm the long lost southern spice girl. My hair is ombre and I haven't cut it in three years. I gave my friend Sydney my shoes because she needed a pair. I listened to Sylvan Esso's new album in a bathtub for five hours in a hotel room in Marseille- day dreaming about all the different people I could pretend I was that day. I hadn't lost anyone before. I was writing beautiful tangly words everyday. I was no one's but my own. everything was going in my favor. I was happy and far too curious for my own good.

But curiosity killed the cat, and here I am on my ninth life walking on egg shells trying to keep it all together.

Take out all my casualties
Hang them up to dry
Each one a similar color
But different size.

Reach in my pocket
There you'll find
The ones you forgot about
That makes nine.

I wanna say I lost,
lost them all in a white girls bag,
filled with peppermint gum wrappers
and made of Micheal Kors.

Let them go like candy
when it’s too old.

Gave no reason
but at least I tried.


They said I had too much pride, or maybe
it’s because it’s about being slutty,

I do like too many guys
and girls,
but maybe that’s why.

I’m not a mystery, nothing here to solve,
I’m nice,
I like myself
and you
but I like me
better than any of you all.

I think I got nasty,
maybe it was when I took a fall,
sticky with blood and word phrasings.

Drunk and disorderly,
but I promise, I took pictures of it all!

They might call me crazy but
I’ve already called them all.

I’ll always be late to breakfast
but never mistake me for being
flaky
like your breakfast biscuit,
topped with gravy-
fake tasting excuses,
its like you wrote the lyrics-
“drive me crazy.”

been trying to throw up for days,

cold hands replaced
for freezing eyes
and tongues glazing over
saying the words

“good-bye.”

so,

“I’ll see you around,”

you had to slip in
one more
     little
                                         white

                                         lie.

The problem with casual ***
is not a problem at all.

The problem with casual ***,
is that I still inhale
when you kiss my neck
and exhale
into a deep lull.

You lift up my dress
and your mouth curves a smile
that flattens into my stomach,
you laying on top of me,
breathing for just a while.

Our eyes don’t meet,
they gravitate,
slide down our bodies
melting beneath a small graze
of hands,
or touching feet.

I didn’t think I liked you,
but why does your hand
touching my back
always have to feel
warmer
than the blanket
that covers me?

But should I question my sanity,
when someone I decide to sleep with
can barely sleep
when they sleep next to me.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

Look at you,
with your
cat ears, face paint,
masks of every sort

Look at you,
dressing up
as something you aren't
as if you don't already do that
364 days out of the year

i finally get to feel your touch
the knife through my heart wasn't what i was expecting,
but it'll suffice

my blood turns to ribbons on ice, and
i'm crying

you've ruined me, and i love you so much

i am a wicked thing, filled to the brim with you, and
every time you're near i pour
out the emptiness

you're killing me, but i can't stop smiling

god won't **** me and you want me dying

Maybe someday,
When nostalgia won’t be my only friend,
When my life won’t be solitary confinement,
My mind my cell,
My body my capturer.

Maybe that day,
When i will again feel
something other than a palette of sadness,
I will tell you i am happy.

And maybe on that day
or the first time in forever,
It won’t be a lie.
But that day is not today (i’m sorry).