7.4.24

 Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have my face crunched down into cold, white earth. What the taste of ice and blood would be like mixed together on my already acidic tongue.  Metallic. Lingering. Thick. If I'd find it in me to get up.  Blister out one more round despite it all. Or if I'd finally stay down. Drift off with the wind. Disappear into the quiet. 
3 comments

Youth (Archive)

My youth was found in middle-class apartments and a bottle of Jack.  It was found in kissing boys that were so much older than me., lying about my age, and passing out on the bathroom floor.  It was waiting, all week, for the weekend -- and another opportunity to ruin some dream. 

Everyone would know my name.  

Everyone would have touched my face. 

The price of being young.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mad Hatter (Archive)

I don't want to be filled to this capacity -- it's a god damn travesty. Spent two years finding insanity. "Crumpet and tea?" My mind keeps going back and forth with rubber-band-like elasticity. Feels like I'm being shocked with electricity. "Crumpet and tea?" "Crumpet and tea?" It's just the Mad Hatter and me.
Read more

Journals (Archive)

Please don't open us up for all the world to see. She isn't yet ready for the way her heart would bleed. We contain all of her memories, those both joyous and filled with treachery. Her capricious handwriting reflects her emotions, devoted to writing about all her life's commotions. In our pages, we have secrets -- a decade long archive of personal leaflets. We are filled to the brim with paper ephemera, from tickets to wrappers and even a smudge of mascara -- most of which now seems like it's from a different era. And she's told us stories that no one else knows, to this day, we're very proud of the way she grows. She's been through a lot, but so have we, surviving moving and fires and anything that can be. So please don't open us up for all the world to see. She's not quite ready to spill the tea.
Read more

7.4.24

 Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have my face crunched down into cold, white earth. What the taste of ice and blood would be like mixed together on my already acidic tongue.  Metallic. Lingering. Thick. If I'd find it in me to get up.  Blister out one more round despite it all. Or if I'd finally stay down. Drift off with the wind. Disappear into the quiet. 
Read more