I’m so tired of sleeping without you and I’m so tired of my attempts to fall completely into you

only to be bounced back like a trampoline you leave me wondering if my feet will ever touch the ground since you first kissed me.

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.”

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.

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.