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Pea Jun 2016
xvi. where do you go when your house isn't home?

i ******* crawl out of my body, swim infinite miles of the ocean, stretch my neck to the skies, replace my head with the moon. i ******* yearn for your presence, try to break the mirror with my weak stare, can't go further, fitting room doesn't fit whatsoever, all the buttons escape from my ***** and hair falls like tiny dandelions in a rainstorm.
i grow potatoes in my mouth, when i speak i smell of my root, when i am on my period i talk about stomachache at dinner table, when i search for space my tummy is the balloons at pingkan's 8th birthday party which i couldn't bring home. blow the candles i forgot to make a wish for a moment the fate seems seamless, bright red lipstick, brown mascara, outfits i can't ever wear to school, or to be honest, not anywhere because when i try to walk, every step is a ******* hysterical cry, when i use my toes every cell in my body violently shakes.
my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home how do you know that? how did you barge into my clich├ęs? how dare you claim something that even i won't bring myself to think about?
i ******* crawl out of my body, not as soon as possible, i do it right now, right ******* now so i know the years i've spent trying to nourish the flesh i don't really own are worthless, the years i've devoted myself to my worldly lover are the ones that have been consuming my tiny soul, if you ask me now of course no one is satisfied, no one is satisfied until i don't want to call you mine anymore.
i ******* crawl out of my body.
in a desperate attempt to make the hideous pleasing to watch, i sell blindfolds on the street, i light the matches in the rain, i dream of dead grandmother and christmas feast. i turn into a cold statue, i left the tenderness for stupid microorganisms, my divorced bones blame me for everything i did not do. i used to do the right things now i just do nothing, it's ******* useless anyway, i can blink five thousand times and still believe that time is what the clocks and calendars say. (my grandmother was a buddhist.)
i ******* crawl out of my body. i don't want to experience this anymore, i am not into this kind of thing, i long for your presence, all i've got from this building is an infinite count of absences. my body is a building, it has no level, no room, no door, no window, no furniture. my body a giant concrete boring box, i do not even live there anymore, nobody lives there anymore, they are all gone to a poppy field in the middle of nowhere (actually somewhere, only that i am not invited). i ******* crawl out of my body, did that answer your question?
i ******* crawl. out. of. it.
with all due respect, please just kindly shut the **** up
grace  Feb 3
the way
grace Feb 3
the way
words spin and twirl out of a "friends" mouth
wrapping around me
sickly sweet cotton candy sugar
my teeth are rotting and i have a stomachache
i want to get off this carnival ride.

the way
everything feels so huge
clothes, shoes, emotions, ideas, experiences
a second hand, thrifted body
worn in, a little broken, few sizes too big
no returns

the way
i feel like i'm barely anything at all
just a whisper in a crowded room of all the demons i'm trying to defeat

the way
i try to smother and forget cigarette **** thoughts
tossed underfoot
forget the fire
forget the burns
the remanence of bad habits
holding on to the moments of resistance is all i have left

the way
i can't stop remembering all those moments on the swings that go too high stomach dropping, face flushing, falling apart at the seams
happiness that can't be contained
remembering isn't a sin.
we're swinging into the sun so don't let go.
don't let go.
don't let go.
I woke up on the couch again.
I've been sleeping there each night that he's out of town without cell signal.
Not that he even lives with me.
But sleeping in my own bed still feels lonely if there aren't texts from him to look forward to.
No matter how many new friends I make, I can't fill the empty spot.
And it's okay.
"Distance" makes the heart grow "fonder", but all I can hope is that it'll make the heart grow.
So much on our minds.
Choices to make and places to go and work to be done.
And the desire to just drop it all for a week and be together is always there.
Patience, I say, there will be a week for that.
So I will wait.
As much as it hurts for the present, it's worth it.

I got up off the couch once I'd written him a good morning text.
I was playing some of my old music and getting lost in the atmospheric melodies, and just pouring water into the coffee machine instead of waiting for the Brita pitcher to filter it, and then use that, was my method for breaking through the anxiety barrier today.
From there, coffee was followed by a desire for food (because coffee alone is just asking for a stomachache) so I thought of my pancake mix.
Here goes. I'm not measuring this out, my measuring cups are all in the ***** dishes pile. I've washed a bunch of glasses and this one will fit enough pancake batter for two or three small flapjacks.
Here I go.
they look like crepes and not pancakes. but it's alright.
Tori  Mar 25
Tori Mar 25
Its the resounding footstep in a hollow stair
The swift tapping of a keyboard at midnight
The the delicate ripple of far away laughter
The hum of a crowd that's subdued to a hush
The crunch of footsteps on a worn gravel path
And the crisp titter of birds in the morning air

Its the refreshing kiss of rain-washed walk
The warming embrace of oven-fresh bread
The melancholy notes of steamy espresso
The calm of an herbal tea held to the lip
The musk of an old book discovered anew
Its newly-cut cedar in a woodworkers shop

Its the movement of limbs to a lively tune
A welcome stomachache caused by a laugh
The firm, tender grasp of a loved-one's hand
Cascading warm water along bare skin
The cool of a breeze on the laborers brow
Its bear feet tripping through the grass in June

Its a leaf-eclipsed glimpse at the blue of the sky
The miscellaneous covers on a library-shelf
Sunset dipped clouds or'e a tree lined horizon
The dark of wet ink scrolling across a blank page
The vast dome of a galaxy untainted by light
Its the generous exchange of lover's keen eyes

— The End —