my best endeavor is hating myself.

there is about as much poetry left in me as there is in a tree stump.
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I envy you in the way we envy our rich friends' houses. I'm watching you saunter off into your wonderful, successful life. There is no more passion in our dialogue. We're reading from a poorly contrived script and we have so little left to say to each other; my brain and my heart and my mouth lack the conduit they used to have ( Read more... )

I'm embarrassing. More specifically, I need to think more about what I am about to say. I need to digest before I expel.

Speaking of which, I just made a huge bowl and filled it with a whole bag of caesar salad! Bye!

( Read more... )

I want three things:

To be physically needed.

To understand.

To be understood.

I've never had any of that. I'm over the teen years, the beautiful angst of it all.

I want to know the moment it was done. The moment you decided to pick up, go. I think it happened very quickly. Not like drowning. Like slitting a throat or breaking a neck. It all happened very fast. You did it neatly and you were tidy. You compartmentalized your love like boxes of old albums. Things are so much simpler than you want them to be. ( Read more... )

in a bucket she's collecting words,
plucking them from stems from vines from seeds,
the sun as set as an old stain
and she's fitting them together like lincoln logs.

how can she contrive the stutterings and speech ( Read more... )

I tire of self-loathing some nights.

I've skillfully evaded my onslaught of holiday break assignments, and now I am in a bona fide shithole of a mess. Rather than read my AP Biology textbook, I've been purging paraphernalia in my bedroom and reading old magazines. I cannot find some of my old copies of Cahiers du Cinema. I cannot find my copy of Fionn Regan's album. I have only just ( Read more... )