your fingers tips they run up and down my mind
i can't resist the way your words melt down my spine

i want to have mugs. mugs from places i've been and i can make coffee in the morning and go back to my room; where my name is on the lease and  can call it my home. i want plants i want books i want things that aren't essential to living but make me happy- three more days until I retire from being a gypsy and can find comfort again and I couldn't be happier to call Brooklyn home.

I read something along the lines of " all I know is this: I have many wounds but I still stand on my feet" a while ago and it's still stitched to my mind.

actually i lied to you, that one time in my car when we were having a happy morning on our way to go swimming after we got coffee, you asked me if i listened to classical music and i told you i didn't-

and quite frankly i'm listening to classical music this very moment trying to think of a poetic way to phrase "i wish you were in my bed making out with me right now. that you were here sliding your fingers between mine as we were talking about anything, maybe just talking **** because you like that i'm nice but that i'm not actually a nice girl."

it *was cute that you were so particular about dental hygiene each morning, even the time you made my gums bleed a little. ( i say *was because who the hell knows if we'll look at each other like that again now that times past ) maybe it's not something i'll lose sleep over while you're down south but i'm absolutely curious what part of your memory you file my name under. i wonder if you think you've got me all figured out or if i'm a puzzle of the ocean on a blue day with 10,000 pieces to you.

- sorry i called you weak that first time you slept over, kind of

And when the sun comes up I hope it's my face that greets you, my touch slipping back into your memory and like a bad dream you wake up and remember what you broke. A house full of mirrors you walked in like a psychopath with a baseball bat; swinging and swinging and swinging. I can't change what you've done here and i cut my hands on all the shards of your mess trying to make sense of it all. But I'll wrap up all the wounds and grow stronger. I'll watch flowers grow out of my shoes and find my back. Because I know if a drop of memory floats into my mind at night I pray you can't fall asleep because of the roaring thunderstorms of my laughter, the way I'd kiss you like we were the only ones on earth and now all you've got left is yourself and the ugly truth that wraps around your neck and slowly suffocates you as each lie comes to the surface and people whisper each one to someone else. Because I know if people look at me with the slightest glance of pity I pray their glare cuts you like you cut my trust in so many different ways.

I can't fathom how you get a wink of sleep at night if my mind tosses and turns like this.

the glass is half full and it's full of the cutest red wine, so fine you would even spill it on my white couch and call it art -
red has always been your favorite color
i see there's flowers sprouting out of your shoes again and that grin is slapped back onto your face; so perfect i might even kiss it
perhaps right? why not

My truest self is June, 2014. I've just returned from France and I'm excited to simply wake up each morning having no idea where the **** I'll go with the rest of my life. I have no job, no real priorities, just curiosity. I'm still a ******. I've never told someone I loved them. I've got too many black clothes in my closet and I'm convinced I'm the long lost southern spice girl. My hair is ombre and I haven't cut it in three years. I gave my friend Sydney my shoes because she needed a pair. I listened to Sylvan Esso's new album in a bathtub for five hours in a hotel room in Marseille- day dreaming about all the different people I could pretend I was that day. I hadn't lost anyone before. I was writing beautiful tangly words everyday. I was no one's but my own. everything was going in my favor. I was happy and far too curious for my own good.

But curiosity killed the cat, and here I am on my ninth life walking on egg shells trying to keep it all together.