Jun 2014
a little section of my skin tingled and I scratched and pinched until it stung. I can’t deal with pleasantness. On certain days I feel like maybe I am floating and I am silently praying someone will tie an anvil onto my ankle.
my house is a memory making factory. People associate my walls with stories. “Their room” and the warm bubbly water and the smooth shiny flooring. my house is a little cave in the middle of a rain storm, I’m not sure what would happen if I left it, but I think I’d feel a little cleaner, a little glossier.
the sunlight shines through glass and leaves little patches of radiant on my dull skin. you were like a blur of sunlight that danced into my retina. I was so blinded by your beauty, by your contrast, that I forgot you are destructive. You made me squint and my eyes haven’t fully opened since.
The air smelled so floral today, so unmistakably dewey that I tried to climb my budding tree between the mailbox and the big rock. I couldn’t reach the first branch and your bark ripped my aching skin from my fingers and my palms. I forgive you. I forgive you.
why can’t I appreciate mosquitos when I am one. I **** out little bits of personality from everyone around me. each tap of the keyboard derived from a thought in my mind derived from a person I know, from a thing I’ve seen. It’s the tiniest *****, so small you’d never feel it. But the bump is there, it reminds you of what you’ve shared, what you’ve inspired. And then it disappears
I think happiness might be the split second after waking up in a new place and forgetting you’re not home. I think happiness might be the sound of the kettle clicking off. I think happiness might be rushing to something important and looking a bit like a fool as you run.
my teardrops are meeting the raindrops for the first time. they are saying hello. they have things in common. they are so happy. this is why I was born. I am a matchmaker, I’m linking fingernails to tingling skin and tree bark to palms and bits of personality to computer keys. wow.
my house is a memory making factory. People associate my walls with stories. “Their room” and the warm bubbly water and the smooth shiny flooring. my house is a little cave in the middle of a rain storm, I’m not sure what would happen if I left it, but I think I’d feel a little cleaner, a little glossier.
the sunlight shines through glass and leaves little patches of radiant on my dull skin. you were like a blur of sunlight that danced into my retina. I was so blinded by your beauty, by your contrast, that I forgot you are destructive. You made me squint and my eyes haven’t fully opened since.
The air smelled so floral today, so unmistakably dewey that I tried to climb my budding tree between the mailbox and the big rock. I couldn’t reach the first branch and your bark ripped my aching skin from my fingers and my palms. I forgive you. I forgive you.
why can’t I appreciate mosquitos when I am one. I **** out little bits of personality from everyone around me. each tap of the keyboard derived from a thought in my mind derived from a person I know, from a thing I’ve seen. It’s the tiniest *****, so small you’d never feel it. But the bump is there, it reminds you of what you’ve shared, what you’ve inspired. And then it disappears
I think happiness might be the split second after waking up in a new place and forgetting you’re not home. I think happiness might be the sound of the kettle clicking off. I think happiness might be rushing to something important and looking a bit like a fool as you run.
my teardrops are meeting the raindrops for the first time. they are saying hello. they have things in common. they are so happy. this is why I was born. I am a matchmaker, I’m linking fingernails to tingling skin and tree bark to palms and bits of personality to computer keys. wow.
