the year
one.
i want everything to have meaning right now, but i’m pretty sure none of it does. i suppose we
are the creators of meaning, sketching it with our tightly gripped pen, forcing it into the frame of
our camera’s worn lens.
two.
is it gluttonous to consume without creation? i search for poems and art that capture the gaping
hole in my chest rather than attempt to understand it myself. is it gluttony or is it survival? is
detached introspection my saving grace? it is a mere translation, not comprehension. but maybe
when the party died down long ago, and once again i was reminded that i only have myself, it
was all i could stomach. i think that’s okay. and i think it’s okay that i want more.
three.
just don’t stop. fall and falter, rinse and repeat, but don’t let the candle be snuffed out. this
existence is a mirage, anyways so please don’t worry about the sound of breaking glass. It was
always yours to break. the silence was deafening, dulling even. and you are many things, a
favorite song and a fallen angel, but you are not quiet. now carry me to bed and tell me the
world isn’t crumbling, even as the earth beneath us rumbles.
four.
genius is regarded as a blinding headlight in life, and remembered as effervescent starlight in
death.
five.
both autopilot and aesthetic are foreign to me.
six.
i crave every last drop of the ocean between us.
seven.
no apology accompanying the absence, simply the expectation that i will answer the next time
you call.
eight.
realizing i deserve better wasn’t like waking up, it was like coming out of sedation.
nine.
blue nails, waterlogged paperbacks, and explosives.
ten.
do the shadows dancing in the firelight know how near the end is?
eleven.
it’s strange how goodness is such an envied trait. i’m no fool. i know you are not jealous of my
beauty or my eloquence. rather, you wish their clenched fists would unfurl in your presence the
way they unfurl in mine. you chose to let this life harden your edges, whereas i chose to allow
my heart to ripen. that can’t be taught, bought, or replaced. and that’s what makes me a worthy
subject of your desire.
twelve.
allow yourself ot tear through the caution tape surrounding your soul, ignore the alarm sounding
at the intimacy i offer. i know i am passion, not time, but don’t we at least owe that to ourselves?
youth wasn’t built for longevity, i hope you learn that, with or without me by your side. i promise
to always light your cigarette, to always brush away your tears with the pad of my decorated
finger. what more could you want? you’re many things, but i don’t remember selfish ever being
one of them. i’ll be where i belong, with the other bleeding minds. give me a call when you get it.
xx
thirteen.
nothing is safe and no one will love me! but i love this song, please turn it up.
fourteen.
god isn’t real but i am. imagine what could happen if you spent as much time looking for me as
you do for Him.
fifteen.
i’m running out of time. i’m running out of time to make you mine. or is it let you make me yours?
because at the end of the day i think i desire to belong to another with far greater desperation
than i wish to own, conquer, and claim.
sixteen.
no but actually this can’t be good for me anymore. sorry to disappoint the masses! surprise! i
choose safety and isolation over possibility again!
seventeen.
my favorite version of myself is the one who loves and admires the life she is living. i think she is
easiest to love when she smiles as the sun bakes her skin, when she laughs too loud at her
friends’ jokes, when she messily paints her nails the color of cherries, when she tells a stranger
she loves them and means it with every fiber of her being. i love her best and i’m trying to coax
her out of the shadows more frequently. she holds my light in the palm of her hand and i slowly
begin to hate myself when she stays away too long. but i’ve also had to accept that she was
created in the darkness’s womb. she may love the sun, but she will never belong to it. and that’s
okay. i think the darkness has a particular gift for giving life to the softest versions of ourselves,
at least for those who don’t run from the possibility of unfairness.
eighteen.
i think divine femininity is when women choose to ride a stationary bicycle to carrie underwood
when they’re upset instead of yelling and breaking things.
nineteen.
nineteen is one of the craziest things that’s ever happened to me! every day feels like walking
on the ceiling and getting my hair caught in the zipper of my jacket.