"See, the thing about life is,
You're quite lucky, really, until you're not.
That's how it is with everything.
There's really no grey area; everything's just windin' down to when you're **** outta luck,
And when you're there, it's quite sobering, isn't it?
Take Skipper, for example.
You know, you fill 'er up,
And you think to yourself
'Man. I am so ******* lucky.
How did I get so ******* lucky?'
Because you can go wherever the hell you want to on that 300-or-so miles of gas.
Because you, my friend, are the perpetual white, privileged, American girl who has liquid gold pumped into her lousy little heart every fifteen days or so.
Because you can.
And you feel good. Really good.
But then, you forget about it.
The thing is, you are 'so-*******-lucky' for like two weeks or so; you just don't notice, see.
'Cause nobody notices.
You just drive because that's what you do.
And you've got other things to think about; where you're going, who you're seeing, how you're getting there.
And you're 'so-*******-lucky' until you hear that sickening little beep that tells you you're on reserve.
And everybody does the same thing.
Everybody asks a lot of stupid questions.
Your almost-empty tank consumes your mind.
How can I pay for the next one?
Man, I should really get a better job.
Let's see, when did the reserve light go on?
How much is left in there?
Can I get home?
Can I even get to the next gas station?
What if I just left this godforsaken town and let my car just break down somewhere and I would finally be free?
Will my parents be angry that I'm filling up after half a week?
Will they question where I've been?
Do I even have my license with me?
Maybe I shouldn't have driven around so much.
Oh god, maybe I shouldn't sneak around as much as I do.
Why am I driving at night just for the sake of driving when there are starving kids in Africa?
Ugh, I disgust myself.
The gas tank owns you.
Emptiness owns you.
And such is life, you know?
Because we don't even understand things unless they're full or empty.
As humans, we just don't.
We're always waiting for the reserve light to turn and the questions to be answered and that ache in our hearts to go away.
You know, we always sneak around 'trying to get home' on fumes.
We go slower, thinking that'll help, and we turn off the ignition faster, not bothering to finish up that last good song as your car wastes fuel in the driveway.
We're consumed by the thought of when our engines are just going to die.
Because you're just ******* empty at that point, my friend.
And then you're not so ******* lucky anymore."

yellow and blue,
yellow and blue,
isn't it nice
when I think about you?

summer crickets
and somersaults,
can I really claim
that this wasn't my fault?

sprinkles of freckles
and sparkling green eyes,
were all of our days
just drawn out goodbyes?

daisy doodles
and bright white smiles
crashing my car
and sprinting for miles

sunshine lemons
and trampolines,
come to think of it,
we were so ******* mean

yellow and blue,
yellow and blue,
when the river's run dry...
what do I do?

when I first met you,
you didn't talk
and I liked that
because I wouldn't shut up.
we were too young
and pumped with too much serotonin
and wasted naps that we could have taken
but didn't think we needed to.
we never felt our hearts
because we had hardly known they were there
before,
a muscle that has never been cramped
(and oh, how we wish now that
we knew the quickest way to assuage
an internal ache we cannot ice)
your nails were black and shiny,
like your eyes,
and you told me you were a wolf
and I believed you
because you left your paw prints everywhere
but not your voice.

over the years,
we found plungers and tried to stick them
all over us,
trying to **** the glowing skin off our bones.
now,
we try and drown the butterflies and knots
with beer and stomach acid
at two in the morning,
playing video games
donned in our lace *******, pearls, and stilettos
and crying.

now that your blackness has been ripped from the walls to reveal a hidden art piece,
you radiate amber.
your laughter drips like honey from your teeth
and it has not yet expired
in my dusty, overcrowded pantry.
I want to cover myself in the smell of your skin,
oranges and forest fires, vanilla flowers and ennui,
like the soft blankets
we so often hide under.
I will never forget how small your hands are,
reminding me that I have been in love before
and I am in love with you now,
in simplicity, purity, and clemency,
and I just pray to god that lasts.
so let's keep sorting pennies into words
and communicating with each other through soup cans
and let's be good enough for each other
because when you really love someone
only their opinion matters.
and who needs anybody else?
because really,
those people that say that all good things must come to an end,
they're ******.
let's keep proving them wrong.
here's to you.

i wear my starry night socks
whenever i need a little reminder
that the most brilliant people
can be stark staring mad
and still be appreciated

i've been wearing them
a lot lately.

I drive myself to the edges of town,
hoping I can find solace
in not being able to see the lines on the road
through the rain
I drive people mad
hoping I can seek gratitude
in the capacity of kindness I find
when I am lonesome.

as I sit in a ****** café,
instead finding solace and gratitude
at the bottom of the best **** tea I've ever had,
I find both my gas tank
and my desire for human intimacy
are on reserve
and I can't afford to fill up either.

when you hear someone
discussing
the wedding
instead of
the marriage,
just remember

the phoniest
are also
the loneliest