the daisies

I shut the light off and bathed in the dark. I let the black velvet water come to nearly the top of the tub until only my neck and head were left uncovered. The music that was playing embraced me like you never did, seeping down through the water and sliding across my skin. It was like an underwater cathedral in my darkened tub and my body was the altar, finally learning to praise itself again.

When the humidity finally loosened my cough, I coughed up the daisies you planted carelessly along my heart. They were bright and sick and smelt like lies. After all of this, I have learned something after all. Don't trust the daisies; they keep poison in pretty packages.

via *

it's only slaughter, we're only liars, it's only blood

Standing in the center of concerts you realize how shottily put together the human body is. Clumsy feet, elbows that prod much too far outward, the inexhaustible scent of human sweat clinging to your clothes as the crowd ebbs and flows with the guitar pulses. I struggled against the shoulders pressing into my back and against my head, imagining my head popping like a grape in the center of the crowd. They'd find you absorbed into my brain matter.

Standing in the back of concerts you realize how much you miss the hair you've yet to touch; the hair you watched the wind explore and tug at.  You realize how wonderfully a gin and tonic would burn down your vocal chords that are already shot from shouting lyrics. You grab your best friend's hand and pull toward the fresh air like children pulling kites across fields the color of his hair and feel that infinite feeling creep into your toes again.

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Dolores on the Dotted Line

The bartender sat a swan glass full of peach schnapps in front of me and called me Lolita, though he had never read the book before. He knew enough to know I was one, he said. He knew enough to know that I knew nothing at all. With 23 years, jet black hair and a few broken hearts to my name he said I knew nothing at all. He said not to call anything intense unless it had to do with sex because nothing else should ever be that intense, unless it was fucking.

I sat with my friends beside me and pushed dried up tears into the deserts in my tear ducts and let men buy us shot after shot, knowing that as drunk as my body got, my brain would never follow. I'm not even crying over you anymore is the hard part; I'm crying for my horizon and how long it will take the sun to set. I'm crying for a San Francisco apartment with exposed brick and piano keys. I'm crying for a seemingly endless fall and a chance at a warm December.

I'm crying over losing my Lolita and wanting her gone.

via *

the gummy bears

When I look back on my life
It's not that I don't want to see things exactly as they happened
It's just that I prefer to remember them in an artistic way
And truthfully the lie of it all is much more honest because
I invented it.
Clinical psychology tells us arguably that trauma is the
ultimate killer
Memories are not recycled like atoms and particles in quantum
physics
They can be lost forever
It's sort of like my past is an unfinished painting
and as the artist of that painting
I must fill in all the ugly holes
And make it beautiful again
It's not that I've been dishonest.
It's just that I loathe reality.
...
The truth is
Back then at the clinic
They only wore those funny hats to keep the blood out of their
hair
And that girl on the left
She ordered gummy bears and a knife a couple of hours ago
They only gave her the gummy bears
I'd wished they'd only given me the gummy bears
-Lady Gaga, Marry the Night

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1.27.15

We sat in the dark under covers and blankets reading tales of wizards and shadows that talked when the clock struck twelve. In the summer our kites would breeze past the bellies of the clouds and we swore we could feel the friction brushing onto our fingertips and making our hair rise with electricity. As we aged the ropes on our kites grew smaller and smaller until the only choice we had was to cut the kites free. They flew higher than they ever had and as I started to cry you held my hand for the first time. That was a new type of friction, a friction I knew I would be chasing the rest of my life. 

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internal

We used to have screaming matches on the playground. My friends and I would clench our tiny fists and squeeze our eyes tighter than exploding stars and let our vocal chords rip into the afternoon air. I always won.

There isn't enough real screaming in the adult world. It's all turned internal or into razor blades and bourbon. My lungs are aching and punching for a chance to let a scream slit the sky into shatters. They want to lacerate my ribcage and tear my esophagus into ribbons.

The killer in all of this? Our teachers would always run to us when we had our screaming matches and check our knees for scabs and our elbows for freckles of blood. But now if I let out a scream no one would come running.

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rock candy

He was so beautiful, that long haired boy.
Smelling like weed and guitar strings
And fogged up car windows in January.

Hot summer sidewalks. Blown out matches.
Skinned knees. Ice cream cones. Sticky rock candy
Now transformed to whiskey and cocaine.

The cobwebs now pull his mouth down,
Sand has settled in his cheekbones, speckled
His face with pretty lies and bad boy charm.

Everything burns him like guitar strings
Snapping against calloused fingers, iron
lowered into the flames of premature age.

Cigarette smoke and ashes curl and veer
Through his dripping hair and down my back,
Sparking on my spine, ripping me up.

He ripped me open on a night of velvet and
Fractured glass. He rips himself open every night
With needles and bass lines.

via *