sometimes impressed with life
because i get to sit at the end of your couch and tuck my toes under your leg
(it truly is the little things)

okay my fingertips are glass and i've only used the edges for myself
but while i'm tracing your back I am careful to keep from pricking
and sometimes when we kiss
it feels like we connect and float and glide
and you know they say dancers are really sensitive to movement,
we know how every adjustment means something
every swoop of the head and blink of the eye
and every time you touch my spine
the dancer in me leaps into meaning,
because the way your head tilted is art enough to put to music

it's pretty simple, i guess
no crows picking at the thoughts under my skull
no claw marks on my back from everyone who ever tried to stab me there
no knots of hair in the corners of my eye lids built up from years of trying to hide behind a frizzy blonde
life can be simple because it's all only metaphors
most things i think could be so much simpler

so instead of
me being a small cactus missing many ****** and him being the sun that allows me to grow tall anyway
he's just a guy that i love who makes me think a little clearer and feel a little stronger
and instead of
sitting at the bottom of a lake with the whole world still raining on me, seaweed wrapped around my hips so tight it stung
i was just a girl sitting in the tub under shower jets, letting the water wash away the blood

**** metaphors

let's remove the layers of clothes separating us
(you're looking me in the eyes again)
my shirt comes off
(your lips are against my ear)
my fingers fumble around your belt loops
(you're kissing down my stomach)
i want to press my palms against your cheeks and rest your head to my chest
i want to tell you how much you mean to me
over and over and over

i'm sorry i'm never sure
but i never am.
I want to get high because I'm tired of a lot
and I'm cleaning up my room but i'll never learn to clean up my act
and what would be the point of that, anyway
(what's the point in anything)
(what's the point in any of this)
tired of planning and hoping and dreaming of success
when i can't even think of what success is
when walking around strung out
seeing in black and white
lighting up and stumbling through bed sheets
doesn't sound so ******* bad
because you can't be bored if you're a drug addict, right?
i've already got my tombstone picked out
i've already drowned and i'll already die in a car crash
or get ***** in a city
and why do my nightmares get so tragic
when i've never really experienced a tragedy
Maybe we are all just walking tragedies
waiting for our time of disaster
SOME DAYS I HAVE HOPE
SOME DAYS I HOPE FOR AN OVERDOSE

godddddd i am just trying to enjoy the time i have but sometimes i don't know how i ***** that up so easily

my dad sighs and walks up the stairs
and i don't have many secrets,
but writing things down feels like one.
telling you i don't just want to see the grand canyon,
i want to see you there,
that feels like a secret.

i used to use index cards as book marks so i could neatly write down my favorite quotes/lines from the pages and sometimes i wish i took more pictures so i could do that with moments.
sometimes things last, but sometimes things aren't supposed to,
and i think i'd like to have a few pictures of what time won't let me take with me
(i should take more pictures of the people that make me smile, just in case)