You were my butterfly lighting
sighing, with your eyes
500 miles of space between us and and
nothing could separate you from my thighs.
That same tongue that loved me
transformed itself to a poison barb when he was
"too tired to deal with this right now".
I drowned in the fluids of your lungs
when you became sick of me.

Tragic smiles and detached
frozen shoulders,
moats defending castles made of a billion grains of sand
This rainy season has left you miraculously
dry?  
And for what?
The only points you proved
were those that top the
bitter spikes that lance from your heart.

I think it's been a year since I took that road trip with Trevor. How lucky am I that was able to experience such serendipitous, powerful love.
The sun setting in Big Sur was every color imaginable, and the beach we stopped on was too real to even describe. I feel so lucky. I keep crying.
It was better than anything I could've ever come up with, because it was real. It was nice. I couldn't even allow myself to feel happy, the floodgates were open and joy just poured out of me.
That was 1 year ago today. My hair is longer and splitting in all different directions, and I'm beginning to notice how dry my skin is. I don't really take my tea with sugar anymore and I'm worried about how big my **** looks in most pants. I water some plants every day and I get to live in a tiny yellow house. I have lots of friends that I'm extremely grateful for that like ***** and **** and nothing and everything in between or around. My flight back home this morning was short. What can I say, I don't want to talk about it.

A little song bird is in my heart and every once in a while I let it sing as it catches on fire. Meanwhile, I think I'm slowly learning how to pet cats. They've got a little scruff around their necks that one can knead and grab.

I got everything I've ever wanted

My drive to school consists of winding roads and wandering eyes in this town of autumn.  There is a layer of undeniable honesty to this season, as if the world at this time has nothing to hide. Something about the fiery death of the maples down Laurel brings life.
The chill of the crisp blue sky is palpable from behind dusty glass windows, and zephyrs that threaten needles across your cheek rustle the bones of bushes with no urgency at all.

Though California's fall has yet to arrive, my chest has yet to thaw.

the October wind whistles through me, reminding me of the many holes that have formed. I'm a chandelier of hair and bones.

How can it be that
a melody can make you feel like you belong
and not, all at once?
I find myself in a composed dissolution
The world can stop, and the ground below me will give way to
the sudden awareness of a sensation
that is similar to being lost in your own room.
Suddenly, this "place" seems very raw
Things inside you open up  and makes distinguishable
where you are
where you've been
and where you've yet to be.
And
Sometimes people are like that.
Your eyes are where I am
Our fights are where I have been, time and time again
and finding peace with those two rifts is where I have yet to be.
Glaciers could snap and crash with volleys of icy hell fire
Soberly frozen earth could nick my cheeks and arms
and my cold skin could remain as tout as a tuned string instrument
ready to produce sound
But,
turning inside myself, searching for a bridge to this rift produces a silence so deafening
I can hear the humming of stars