I am graduating in a week from today. Fuck it. Fuck the horrid conversations and my terrible way of dealing with people, the little girls plotting our demise and my bitch ex-girlfriend with her psychotic entitlement. It is worth it to sit in a red booth with you, talk in the dark on a La Cañada porch, lie in orange light, name tiny islands, sit on ( Read more... )

I am graduating in two weeks and I still taste vodka at three o'clock and sparkling wine on a hardwood floor, candy in the morning like a gang of philistine casualties going on and on about the color of the wide bright ceiling ( Read more... )

3. Tipalet Burgundy and The Poem that Was Actually About Her Long-Standing Issues with Her Papa Tipalet

My Baby Tip-Ahhh-Lay you can have anything you ever want ( Read more... )

I enter a room filled entirely ( Read more... )

2. Tipalet Burgundy and the Saddest Little French Girl in the World ( Read more... )

1. Tipalet Burgundy and The Start ( Read more... )

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Sunday nearing four am seven o'clock eastern time your letter made me cry because I don't deserve this, I'm quite awful, your flowers clawed at my throat all god damned morning and I convinced myself I didn't love you anymore ( Read more... )

What I didn't say last night nearing eleven o'clock sitting backwards in your passenger seat with George Harrison cooing and pithy air curling around my neck, when I told you how I underline absolutely everything in the books I read for school, what I didn't say was that I do it because everything is significant. And in my own way I believe that, ( Read more... )

like a broken sickle or a telegram from a hundred leagues underground or collarbones coated in rum or a tipalet burgundy damp and dying in the crease of your lips ( Read more... )