Nostalgia

Firstly, I want to apologize for spilling bits of my character all over your sweater. I rarely listen, will not shut up. 

Secondly, I haven’t slept in my own bed for about two weeks. My new friend fell into something she mistook for something else and I am bloodthirsty.

Thirdly, I may not have been the first to love you, but I loved you the most. At times, as if it were clockwork. Cyclic movements of the eyes; sideways glances succeeded by the roll of the eyes. “I swear, this is the last time.” 

Phoenix

Icarus flies into the sky and I wonder what he was more afraid of burning or falling

I shave the right side of my brain clenched my fists and burn off most of my name, I am trying I’m trying I’m trying I’m trying

Going as fast as I can click click click tapping of the heels it’s time to go home but where will he go

What was he thinking as he fell will it be quick or slow can you feel it would you dull the ache of the plunge or the heat

I would rather blaze

19

I am merely a cast, and I say this in a way that I do not enclose a muscle between my lips, I am not strong or durable, not worth protecting the flesh from the sun. I am a cast in that I am cut in half and never whole. Not sure what day it is, what year it is. All I can manage is blink –

Blink suburbs blink city blink birthday blink college blink drop-out blink happiness blink tragedy blink anniversary blink celebration blink drink blink choke blink blink blink

19 years comprise of 19 versions I could not commit to. The nonexistence of what could have been and what inevitably will be; lost. How many years have you spent keeping yourself alive? 19 years.

Crossing the bridge

Fucked My Way Up to the Top (Instrumental) / All music rights reserved by Lana Del Rey

Crossing the bridge

I grew up believing that everybody loves, and I still do. But I believe we define love the way we have experienced it – her tattoos and cigarette smoking. Black gloves, black dress, black hair. And the brief love affairs. Sometimes, our love becomes so mad, we can’t get high enough to touch it. Our suffering becomes so public. You watch me bleed on my heart. My height. My voice. Now watch the flowers cover the layers of lies and late nights. Let the obsession with the beauty bleed away because you were never ready. My love has kissed other people. Trembled for your eyes. Bled for your attention. Twisted and folded my stomach. Can love be absent? Because this bridge is empty, and the flames make it so hard to get close to you. Do not command me, and do not condemn me. Because love should never be absent of your own. Is this love the same kind that teaches me to be smart, before pretty? If it makes you tremble, tremble because it exists and remember how her laugh crackled, like magic. How the sun permanently etched her glow onto their skin and smile. I swear, I saw the women in their lives and hearts being worn on their hands. The humility in their wonder and walk. They make home feel like, the safe, the guarded. The feelings coming to catch up and you realize, you can come home. Even those who you care for, dearly, can crumble like old bones, when the pain is thick and tropical, and the absence is hot. Drink to love like this, because you are drawn to the wolves. When misery meets heartache, meet your own. The weight of your flesh will feel heavier than your pain, but I will grab your face and remind you how beautiful, how this alone is enough to love you. It is ready, it is extraordinary. I want more of the most important kind of love, the shedding of the layers and mistakes – self-acceptance, waking up to yourself, tracing the past painted on your skin to find strength. That is love.