the pages of my notebook are probably more lovelorn than i'll ever be
idk
i never longed to be a tree burying my roots deep into Her soil, moaning
okay maybe i did because sometimes i only exist in crumpled up shreds of graphing paper between my awkward handwriting and
things i wish i'd have told you,
residing at the bottom of the ******* bin
(we're all writing about somebody)
fundamentally, i only exist between the blue lines and the margins
i want to be a tree again
Mother Earth is a **** (i mean, dang bruh, she's beautiful)
want my roots reaching as far into her as they'll go / want her attached to me in every way possible / want her in every way possible
i want to stay here forever
if i fall alone in the forest **** right i'll make a sound:
symphony of the lovelorn branches in C-minor except it's not really a symphony i'm just giving an impromptu solo to my ******* bin,
i have played the viola since 6th grade and
heartstrings since 7th

in my dream last night, i fancied the way your lips parted softly in your sleep
your mouth was Elysian and your eyes were dancing beneath their lids
i hope you were dreaming of things that make you happy (i am no longer ignorant enough to hope that i am what makes you happy)
i fancied the way that your nose was red from the cold you just got over
your face was so peaceful and honest in that space of me watching you dream in my dream
they say the truth can be ugly
and that the truth can set you free
but looking at you, wrapped in slumber, unable to deceive
i think truth is the loveliest thing in the world
and
i will never be free of you, even when i wake

i feel like a queen in a king sized bed. the edge of my quilt is the edge of my terrain, and i
i believe the world is just too big for me

on another note, the sadness is back. it feels like this:
-December
-overwatered flowers
-flash freeze
-snowed-over sand
-abandoned parks
-carpet carpet carpet burn
-corset laced tighter than my own ribs
-nine years old bedazzling my eyelids even though it hurts
-becoming a frost flower and
-New Orleans 2005, because that's what waking up from nightmares is like:

clammy palms
empty lungs
hurricane blown but you still wake up utterly alone in a king sized bed that you don't really fill up

do you cut your diamonds on those sharp, pretty little horns of yours? i bet you do.
do you wash your upper-echelonic car with the tears of your victims? i bet you do, i know you do.
you burn out the water-logged hearts of sailors stricken by your siren song
with a body hot enough to turn sand to glass
but a heart cold enough to **** the sun dead fast
you act like queen of hell
(but you taste/look/smell
like heaven)