free write 1

His eyes wrench me open, asking everything I never will. Answering their own questions before a word can leak like honey out of the grooves between my teeth. The shining example of masculinity I was born to is nothing more than a plastic army toy masquerading as the real thing. But his camouflage has been eaten away by the Coke stains that still spill down his cheeks from years ago. My cherry lips lose their color slowly each time we speak, all the blood from them rushing down into my gut and turning with the bile that lives there. I am nothing of this man, even if his DNA tattoos itself into me, my middle name his bastard child.

On the other hand, we have the boy I barely know. The boy I've spent a mere hour with and yet hear in all of the weeping notes of my favorite ballads. His glossy hair and curious voice. Whatever void I am trying to fill, it's ripping further open by the second. When I am nothing more than raw flesh, let's see whose blood will rush back into my lips.

but a word is a bottomless pit

Everything evaporates slowly in an unseasonably warm spring. Firetrucks aren't as red as they once were. Pain isn't nearly as incapsulating in the physical realm. But the pain of the tattoo gun pressing against your cerebellum is what traps you and makes you scream. They'll all leave eventually. They'll leave and you'll be stuck here, glowing finally but glowing alone. You're a neon sign with one letter flashing in helpless murder of a perfect word. Closed becomes close. Close becomes lose. It's all breaking apart just as it's coming together. Syntax and diction are crawling under your nailbeds and what are you doing instead? You nap and you cry, you drink and you fuck. You scream, you laugh, you finally leave your bed just as everyone else heads home. He was British and he wanted you. He was British and you left him standing on a street corner with your dreams clawing at his belt buckle. Home alone on the kitchen floor, that small ice cream drip from last week is sitting right beneath your cheek but you're too drunk to care. This warm spring took all of the fight right out of you. What's left? That lonely drip of ice cream on the unwashed kitchen floor. That smell of him dusted on your clothes. The bloody hope that all this isn't for nothing.

via *

trapped

Hi. For some reason it feels like it's been so long since I've been on here. It's only been a few days but for one reason or another, it's felt like I haven't been allowed to write on my own blog. I was scared to write and I still am a little bit. But I'm also afraid of what will happen if I don't. My heart needs it. (I mean, it also needs to not be afraid 100% of the time but one thing at a time.)

My blog is my home. It's like my baby blankets. It means so much to me and it is the place I feel safest. So when I feel like my blog has been bombed or is being watched I have a hard time wanting to come home, but where else will I go? Ugh. I hate winter.

How are you all? I don't really have a lot to say, but I wanted to check in. Today in my creative writing class, we are devoting the entire class to workshopping one of my stories. *INSERT GULP HERE* I'm very scared. I've been doubting my writing lately. It's the grey weather and the grey spirits around me. I need sunlight and an escape. And also to stop being scared of my own shadow. I'll let you know how the workshop goes. I'd love to share the story I wrote here. I'm very proud of it. It's a bit long but maybe I can share it piece by piece.

Excuse my frantic rambling. But everything feels like that lately.

I love you, readers. Thank you for being here and making me feel brave.