cliche

 trying to write about love when everything about love is cliche is an impossible task so you might as well embrace it! heres a poem about it

Cliche
Your beauty face eyes mind lips are
Soft as a feather ink a blade of grass skin lips cloth
And when you kiss me my stomach brain lips toes curl.
You walk with grace power poetry urge a whisper
Away, leaving me longing hoping wishing wanting thirsty
For more of your painful delicious disgusting spit.
I want to hold kiss grab lasso your waist
and pull you close towards me into my chest until you
Break my ribs hold me back crawl inside.
I think you're great lovely fucked up cool warm beautiful
Something!

im

i’m going to break my no napping rule just because i’m so very tired and yawning a lot. you must be gentle with me

my yesterday

 inspired by robins blog 

i woke up at 7 am

i snoozed for an hour and a half

i woke up again at 8:30

i stood up, did my hair, did my makeup, took my morning piss, brushed my teeth too agressively.

listened to bjork as i redid all of my makeup

skipped downstairs where i was confronted with a beautiful mason jar filled with yesterdays juice. i drank that juice. 

twirled to the bus stop listening to the same song on repeat

got a bagel (everything with extra cream cheese)

texted with bae

went to class and critiqued other peoples writing, felt guilty about it. 

went to second class and critiqued my own writing! while also writing a lot more. 

traveled with an oomf to the career fair

acquired lots of branded junk that i will never use but enjoyed the process of getting.

 went to third class

got called out for not paying attention (its ok because i was not alone in this call out. shoutout oomf)

walked home, traveled through puddle city, jumped in many a puddles because i was on my way home and could change my socks when i got there.

 texted with bae

wrote more (always write)

went to campus and got food truck food for free

arrived to a poetry reading 40 minutes early, wrote four poems in this time.

watched the most beautiful poetry reading. the poet is visiting my class tomorrow. i am so excited.  

texted with bae

traveled home, puddle city has become ice city! i slipped and fell 6 times but it was okay because i had a wonderful soundtrack. 

watched gone girl while dying my hair blue

showered

dried my hair to see what color it became (very muddy greenish blue. im ok with it!)

finished gone girl

laid down

dreamt

 

Cool Girl

this is a rough draft of a piece for my creative nonfiction class. I had a ton of fun writing it. pleaaseeeee not too much on the grammar of content or anything i have my first workshop friday where i will hopefully get feedback to turn this from my mental chronicles to a well rounded story. Some experiences have been changed slightly for the sake of the story. enjoy!

 

                      COOL GIRL.
                 (Warning for mentions of suicide)
                    Maggie Dullea

cool girl
    /ko͞ol/ /ɡərl/
    noun
         cool girl; plural noun: cool girls

Pretty, thin, and (relatively) fashionable. Ideally, blonde, ideally plays 2-5 sports. Avid Instagram user.
2.  Female who knows how to talk to others face to face without getting so embarrassed she cries.
        - “I wish I was a cool girl, but unfortunately, I do theatre.”

    Antonyms
        Weirdo, theatre freak, Faggie Dullea, that one girl high-key smells weird.


                        TO BE.
    I’ve never been a cool girl. I’ve never had the suave attitude, the effortlessly endearing quirks, the unbridled confidence that supersedes any physical imperfections. Middle school, as it is for many, was a constant struggle between desperately trying to be cool, and knowing “cool” was something I could never be. When my mom handed me her old iPhone 5 right after my fifth-grade graduation, things changed.
    

                    INSTAGRAM.
    Instagram was my weapon of choice in the beginning. I had one friend, Allison, a girl I occasionally sat next with at lunch, who had nails so sharp and pristine that the nubs on my fingers throbbed with jealousy. She had a new set every week, pink to blue gradients, neon pink with minuscule yellow flowers on the tips, teal zebra stripes. You could tell it was done at home, there was always a small pool of excess polish that flooded the cuticle, but it was as perfect as it needed to be. Every day, I furiously googled at-home nail care treatments, watched dozens of YouTube videos on the most effective way to create intricate nail patterns, and spent all of my allowance on tools and nail polish to have nails as exquisite as hers.
    I began coming into school with nails as detailed as hers, once the bitten ones grew out enough and their jagged edges smoothed. She took interest quickly, as I used largely neons. It was hard not to notice. The skin around my nails was dry and flaking from my constant acetone use, but my nails were not an accessory, something people I never spoke to complimented me on.
    The first thing she said to me after my initial self-made manicure was “Cool nails.”
    We kept sitting next to each other, chatting about our favorite nail artists, showing each other time lapses of our nail painting. After a few weeks of chatting, she suggested we make a joint Instagram account where we could post our nail art. I was in.
    @AM.nails, an account filled with amateur nail art, painting time lapses, nail-related challenges, nail care tips, and anything we could think of. We followed everyone at school, and we were known for a short time as “the girls with the nail thing.” Nevertheless, we kept at it. We’d get compliments for our nails, we sat next to each other at lunch every day. We cried when my index nail broke.
    One video I posted got more attention than the rest. I put 99 layers of nail polish on a single nail, creating a mountainous mess of polymers and chemical fumes that weighed my nail down so far I could barely lift it. We got 10,000 views on that video.
    I started biting my nails again three months after we began the account. It fizzled out. I haven't spoken to Allison in years.



                       TWITTER.
    I first joined Twitter at age 12. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to, the terms and conditions require users to be 13+, but I always knew how to lie. My first account was for lurking, for watching Katy Perry make snide remarks about Taylor Swift, for checking what the election results would be, and fearmongering to anyone who’d listen. I began posting when Tucker Carlson tweeted something so foolish that I (now 13 years old) needed to school him with my cliche liberalism, using slogans like “science is real” and “build bridges, not walls.”  I got tired of being nice, though. My first permanent suspension was because I told Tucker Carlson I hoped his house would burn down.

    I created a new account. Two new accounts, actually. One for my personal scrolling needs, and one with the username “bullyingterfs,” created for doing just that. I went to JK Rowling’s Twitter, scoured her replies for the most egregious transphobia, and harassed them until they deleted their accounts. It worked twice, and then I got permanently banned.
    My other account lasted longer. It kept me busy from age 14 to age 18. Until September 8th, 2022. The first thing I did in the morning was check Twitter. Feeling especially full of morning anger, I thought of the most malicious tweet that would get me the most attention. I tweeted, “die bitch @queenelizabeth” I put my phone down.
    Queen Elizabeth died at 3:10 pm that day. My Twitter account was forever gone.

                    KIK. HOLY FUCK.
    I met Miles on Kik, an app that has only ever brought turmoil into the lives of queer 13-year-old girls. We were the same age, which rarely happened, we were both used to talking to people years older than us. Miles was confident, smart, kind, and most importantly, thought I was cool. Coolness was never something that came naturally to me, the suave nature of the cool girl attitude looked like a cheap imitation when I attempted them.
    Miles called me Evan. I called them Connor. We met in a public kik group chat for the musical Dear Evan Hansen (hence the nicknames) and were drawn to each other, likely because we were the only children in the chat. We texted constantly. We never called, just texted. I’d hide my phone under my desk in French class to tell them about the ridiculous pronunciation that the boy next to me had, I'd send them pictures of my plate at family dinner, and they’d tell me about how they hated being rich and a part of a nuclear family. They always said they were “born to be poor” and “forced to have money.”
    We wrote each other letters. When my mother would ask why I was receiving so much mail from Georgia, I created a bullshit excuse about a penpal. I could never tell her where Miles and I had met. The envelopes held stickers, teabags, receipts, anything that could illustrate to the other the week prior, anything that could make us have a physical connection.

    One day, Miles called me. They were crying. They wouldn’t stop crying. They wouldn't tell me what was wrong. They wouldn't stop fucking crying. Suddenly, they hung up. They stopped responding to my messages apart from a single message: “Goodbye.”
    I knew their address. I knew they were depressed. I knew they had spoken about wanting to disappear, about feeling worthless. I had to do something. This was my best friend, my only person. I contacted the police in their small town in the suburbs outside Atlanta. I was thirteen years old.
    They were asleep, I found out. They called me, texted me goodbye, then took a two-hour nap, completely safe. The police arrived at their house from my anonymous tip about a possible suicide attempt, searched the house, spoke to their parents, and left.
    Miles hated me. They hated that I revealed their depression to their parents, they hated that I wanted to save their life. They thought I betrayed them. They never spoke to me again.


                SNAPCHAT (AND DISCORD).
    Until two years later. On Snapchat, I received a message from Miles.
        Heyyyyy Evvy
                                Hey lol
        How have u been!
                                Pretty good!
        I miss you. We should start talking again.
                                Okay.
        Join my discord?
                                Okay.

    And I did. And we spoke again. And we ended up dating. We started sending letters again; we started texting every day again; we started calling every night before bed, and we fell in love. Until I found out that they had been cheating on me the whole time with a 17-year-old, bearded Slavic alcoholic. I never spoke to them again. I keep their letters in a box under my bed.

                    WATTPAD
    I don't want to talk about this one tbh.


                            INSTAGRAM? AGAIN?
     Meet Jennifer Lowe—  a fictitious twelve-year-old girl that my twelve-year-old mind created (based on a stock image I found on Pinterest). She was a lacrosse player, short and thin, with dirty blonde hair and hazel green eyes, unique enough to stand out, pretty enough to fit in. She was a transfer to my middle school from the Midwest with a subtle accent that only came out when she was excited. I created an Instagram account, @jennifer_lowe12, and put Thurston Middle School class of 2018 in her bio alongside three elegant emojis (a blue circle, a dolphin, and a lacrosse stick). I followed everyone I could think of: the soccer boys, the track and field girls, the theatre kids, and, most importantly, the lacrosse girls.
    I got a hundred people to follow her back. People believed in her. Everyone was talking about her. Everyone was talking about me. I switched to my main account and saw floods of spam accounts posting screenshots of her profile, asking if anyone knew who this girl was. At 200 followers, people started getting more and more suspicious. Then, they found the original stock image.
    There were theories that our middle school guidance counselor created the account to combat cyberbullying, theories that teachers were doing it to make sure kids do homework, theories that parents were doing it to snoop on their children. I got scared and logged out. Nobody knows it was me.


                TIKTOK (AND MUSICAL.LY)
    Musical.ly called to me because I didn’t have to be creative. I could lip sync to songs and skits that other people had made, and get just as many views as the creator. I was on musical.ly when it became TikTok, the period where videos were either deeply misogynistic, vaguely funny (mostly due to their random nature), or thirst traps. I spent hours on TikTok a day, I would post the stupidest bullshit I could think of, captioning videos with as many hashtags as I could think of. A video of me reacting to someone making slime with the caption “#fyp #foryoupage #slime #mentalhealthawarenessmonth #dogsoftiktok #foryou” got 1.1 million views. A video of me calling a popular TikTokker cringe got 4.5 million views. For whatever reason, TikTok was an app that I always fell back on, it didn't have the pressure of Instagram, where everyone I knew would scrutinize each of my posts, and I didn’t have to be creative at all. It did, however, engulf me in cringe culture, the blatant judgment of others based on nothing but what they post in a 45-second clip. I, to this day, am still trying to shake that.


                COOL GIRLS HAVE FRIENDS.
    I was a fat twelve-year-old with long, perpetually greasy, mousey brown hair and two (occasionally three) friends at school, surrounded by twelve-year-old lacrosse prodigies who owned every item from Vineyard Vines and Ivory Ella. I sat in the back of my classes, silently ignoring my teachers, nearly failing math and history, waiting for the next time I could check my phone, waiting for a moment where I could pretend I needed to go to the bathroom to scroll through Twitter. I silently chuckled in the math wing bathroom stall every day to messages sent to me by my inappropriately aged online boyfriend, or the reblog tags on my musical theatre Tumblr account.
    I hated my life off-screen. I had no purpose in real life; I didn't know how to talk to anyone, and nobody wanted to talk to me. To be fair, who would want to talk to the girl who sits with a group of friends who don't like her and stares at her phone all of lunch?
    Social media was a way to get away from that. Twitter was where I’d get all of my pop culture news (it still is), Instagram was where I could live vicariously through the girls on my feed (it still is), and Wattpad was where I could show my creativity and express my love for writing (thank god it isn’t anymore). My phone was there for me when my grandmother died, it was there for me when I went through my first breakup, when I had my first panic attack, when I got cheated on, when my mom broke her ribs, when boys at school would shove me, when my brother would ignore me, when my favorite celebrities died, when my favorite musicals closed.
    I recently deleted all social media from my phone (now an iPhone 11.) I get called cool offline more than I do online. I wear shoes that hurt my feet but make me taller, I wear clothes that sometimes fit and sometimes don’t. I put my old phone in a frame and hung it on my wall. I have cool friends now. My iPhone 5 was my first true love. My iPhone 5 was always my coolest friend.


 

today

 there's so much to write about and yet so little to write. i've spent the last two hours trying to catch up on writing assignments, making up stories for my creative nonfiction class, using thesauruses to try to beef up my vocabulary and not use the word "pristine" four times in a paragraph. I kept my phone out of my pocket today, and i have been writing a lot. I haven't smoked weed yet, but god do i want to. I haven't napped. I texted my brother and my dad. I learned about musical keys (whole whole half whole whole whole half!) and refreshed my memory on the parts of the brain. I have used an infinite amount of spell check today. I went on social media just a couple times, on a journey to find archived posts from accounts that no longer exist. I went to class. I woke up early. I cooked a meal. I dont know if I'm doing a good job at this challenge because I have already begun to dream of the weed i will smoke after i finish. I will continue though. I posted an original poem for the first time in a while. I havent been writing nearly enough. I think this will help. i cried twice in class today but nobody noticed because I am so good at hiding it.

marblebrained

 Marblebrained

A girl stuck a marble up her nose.
It made her feel piggish, forcing a scrunch
And a scowl, despite her joy at the
Silliness of the entire situation. She always
Admired an aquiline nose, maybe this
Was a way to get the face she always wanted.
Her nose ran, as it should, dripping down
Her cupids bow to her lip, like snowfall, like sleet.
The marble squirmed further and further
Into her sinuses as she sniffled, tickling the
Parts of her nose she couldn’t reach
                When she picked it.

She did not tell anyone about her marble,
Smooth as a stone, pressing so deep it felt
like it was now in her forehead. The pressure
Built up every day, making her ears throb
And her eyes squint, the pain was worth the
Secret, though. She couldnt bear the idea
That someone could tease her for the marble,
Creeping deeper and deeper into her skull,
                so she suffered through.

One day she felt a pop, so loud against her eardrums
That she knew the day had finally come, the
Marble had slipped into her brain. She felt it float around
In her cerebrospinal fluid, bobbing like a bouey,
Poking the forebrain. She thought it touched the memory
Center, because she finally remembered the songs
her dad used to sing to her. Her eyes changed, new visions
Of snowfall clouded her sight, she couldn’t quite sense
                the way she could before.

The marble might have disintegrated back into sand.
She didn't have it removed, and she never
Shared her glass secret with a soul. Her nose was
Rounded, more than it was when she stuck it
in, her vision still snowy, her memories still coming back
                        Slowly.

making a fun challenge for myself

 i want to stop feeling like im wasting all my time so i am going to do a 7 day be the best person i can be challenge.

 for exactly 1 week i will

use no social media (except blogger. this now does include youtube, pinterest, and letterboxd except for logging movies)

not put my phone in my pocket. in my backpack or purse or whatever just not in my pocket.

cook a real meal for myself once a day 

smoke no weed (i know. but it must be done)

play no video games (except with friends)

no napping

write for 30 minutes a day straight

blog about it every day

watch movies only (unless with friends) 

text someone new every day

go somewhere new every day 

learn something new every day

and then i will stop it and not continue. or maybe i will continue. but i want to see how i feel when i am at my absolute best. its like an experiment because if i make it a game then maybe i will follow it. i start now and set an alarm for next monday at 8:43 am and that is when i will stop! 

this probably seems a lot like a cringe wellness tiktokker lifestyle challenge but also they do so much in a day and i do so little so maybe they do something right. let me try new things. experiment is starting neowwww.

I WROTE this poem. nobody else did!

 whose woods these are i think i know

his house is in the villiage though

he will not see me stoppung here 

to watch his woods fil up with snow

 

my little horse must think it queer

to stop without a farmhouse near

etween the woods adn snowy lake

the darkest evening of the year

 

he gives his harness bells a shake

to ask if there is some mistake

the only other sound's the sweep

of easy wind and downy flake

 

these woods are lovely dark and deep 

but i have promises to keep

and miles to go before i sleep

and miles to go before i sleep

 

Okay i admit that i did not write this. poem it is in fact stopping by woods on a snowy evening by robert frost. But i transcribed it from memory because I am trying to commit as many poems to memory as I can. i promise new original me written poetry will come soon

the beginning of three different poems i will never finish (or maybe i will)

 Hold me, my raspberry, for a touch of mine
will breach your veins, spill turpentine
from your body, from your brain.
Hold me, dear, or seeds will rupture
your skin, peeking between my teeth your
magenta gore spilling into my pores,
leaving pinked stain on the tip of my nose.
You left your father alone to come and see
me tonight, he waits on the porch watching
The snowfall, while you thaw your drupes.
Another minute in the cold, and they’d burst.

My hair has faded to its natural color.
Through bleach and dye, through layers and layers,
Back to brown. There’s still some red at the top, a
Pitfall of dying hair with no mirror, but the ends,
Which have never been so mousy before, are splitting.
The weeds bud out through the snow on my lawn.
I cut a few inches and washed them down the drain

The flowers bud, the sun shines, the leaves die, the snow falls.
You picked a wild raspberry from the bush outside my window.
Stepping through the rotted wood and thorny plants,
Taking the last ripe fruit on the bush. Instead of feeding it to me
You squeezed it between your fingers, the juice dripping,
Pooling in your cuticles, staining the too-long sleeves of your sweater.
A chickadee flew down and landed on the fence behind you,
Tweeting “hey sweetie” with its landing, flitting its wings for balance.
She followed your fingers as you took the fleshy center
Of the berry and flicked it on the ground, splashing juice against the glass.

broken glass

 is there a feeling better than shards of glass piercing your skin?

obviously its painful, but not until you take the glass out. inside

of my hands it rests gently, avoiding veins and tendons, cutting 

through only the most unimportant muscle to give you that slice

of life and feeling you're missing in your day to day life. blood

twirls around the hole to drain only halted by the jagged edges 

of the glass. you're supposed to take it out, so you do, but now 

the blood spins out of the wound trailing paths through the lines

in my palms. i love you broken glass! you always make my day.

ow

i slipped on my driveway and landed palms first on a shard of glass. now my hand is bleeding at the bus stop. holy fuck poetic goldmine.

more _sonnets H_elp

 Her biggest fear is glass, broken or not,
So she puts a lightbulb in her mouth
Knowing in her mind that it won't fit
and would shatter when she takes it out.

Despite knowing this fact in her mind
She wedges the bulb behind her teeth,
Her mouth starts to ache, her pulse starts to climb,
Unhinged, her jaw accepts defeat.

She clenches her teeth down on the bulb
And immediately tastes the shatter,
Metallic, sweet, blending in with her blood,
A gash on her tongue, red splatter.

Glass behaves just as it should, under pressure, it will burst.
She knew this, and trusted the truth, but she had to try it first.

My icy driveway (someone stop me from writing sonnets please)

The road to hell is paved with good intentions
But my driveway is far too steep to climb,
So I slip down past the icy compliments
And land ass first between the lines.

As I stand up from my tragic lapse
I remember that depth is the greatest of heights
Or whatever she said in when the pawn hits,
It took me four years to finally memorize.

So, in snide and in subtlety I climb yet again
Knowing the salt can’t always melt the wound,
But beyond begs for hugs and comedic amen’s
The top of my driveway feels just as cold.

But I'll take my hair dryer and melt all the ice left,
For it to freeze over again and remember my mess.

:^] (another sonnet)

There are instructions on how to be happy
Written on the door of this bathroom stall.
Step one is to say I love you, Maggie,
The fact that you exist makes me thankful.

Step two is to smile, even if I don’t want to
Because smiling implicitly would trick my brain
Into thinking I have more than I really do.
So, sitting on the toilet, I force a grin.

The final step is to let go of the past
But I wonder how I would stay me,
I’ve been shaped by the things I’ve lost,
Different drugs would travel my bloodstream.

I draw a smiley face under the three steps
Knowing at least it worked a little bit.

my shoes (a sonnet)

 my doc martens have a dozen holes in the soles

and my tread so work that i slip down my driveway

i reach the bottom and instinctively check my pulse,

my heart is beating how it should, my lungs still inflate. 

 

my socks are damp and smy hands scraped by gravel

my shoes, by any other standards, are beyond spent.

Light is reflecting too brightly against the snow to see at all

i stop walking for fear ill slip if my eye catches the ices glint. 

 mt toes are numb and there's stone embedded unto my hand

my docs are more grey now than they are black

the knees of my jeans now have a large dark stain

three cars stare at me as they drive past.

 

my boots are beyond reasonable repair

and yet I'll wear them, and brave my driveway with (slightly) more care.

 

 

magnification

 (this is an exercise that I did in my creative nonfiction class. I am writing about many of my social media pursuits, and the idea of this exercise was to take one sentence and magnify it as much as possible. My sentence was [i have always loved social media]. this is a super rough first draft written in fifteen minutes, dont take this as an example of my best writing pls)

I was a tall and fat twelve-year-old with long, perpetually greasy, mousey brown hair and two (sometimes three) friends at school surrounded by twelve-year-old lacrosse prodigies who owned every item from Vineyard Vines and Ivory Ella. I sat in the back of my classes, silently ignoring my teachers, nearly failing math and history, waiting for the next time I could check my phone, waiting for a moment where I could pretend I needed to go to the bathroom to scroll through Twitter. I silently chuckled in the math wing bathroom stall every day to messages sent to me by my inappropriately aged online boyfriend, or the reblog tags on my musical theatre Tumblr account. I hated my life off-screen. I had no purpose in real life, I didn't know how to talk to anyone except the girl who sat next to me in chorus class, and nobody wanted to talk to me. To be fair, who would want to talk to the girl who sits with a group of friends who don't like her and stares at her phone all of lunch? Social media was a way to get away from that. Twitter was where I’d get all of my pop culture news (it still is), Instagram was where I could live vicariously through the girls on my feed (it still is), and Tumblr was where I could talk about. My interests without being mocked by people who don’t share my obsessions (it still is), and Wattpad was where I could show my creativity, and express my love for writing (thank god it isn’t anymore). My phone was there for me when my grandmother died, it was there for me when I went through my first breakup, when I had my first panic attack, when I got cheated on, when my mom broke her ribs, when boys at school would shove me, when my brother would ignore me, when my favorite celebrities died, when my favorite musicals closed, my phone brought me comfort—but more importantly, it brought me distraction. My iPhone 5 was my first true love. 

shows i have started but never finished

- criminal minds (watched its totality except the final 6 episodes upwards of eight times)

- community (similarly to criminal minds i have seen the entire thing more times than i can count except for the last two episodes)

- the sopranos (this one haunts me every day. 4 episodes from the finale.)

-the flash (this one just got really bad and i stopped because it sucks)

- house (8 episodes from finale. currently on third rewatch.)

- dexter (will probably finish this. got upset with a choice)

- Avatar the last Airbender (9 episodes from finale)

- the office (got 10 minutes into the finale then got scared and turned it off)

- better call saul (2 seasons from finale. saw what was going to happen. got scared.)

- arrested development (my biggest fear in life are the two rebooted seasons)

- the good place (only the finale left. i hear the finale was good, too)

 - killing eve (it was really really good so i stopped watching. 5 episodes left)

- I think you should leave (not even a chronological show, just didnt want to run out of new content. 1 episode left.)

- queens gambit (1 episode left. seen it twice, except the last episode)

 dont read too far into this habit of mine. or do. i definitely missed several but unfortunately i will not be looking for more.

 

love letter to freaks and fags

(with lines from Periphery by Fiona apple)

Go to the periphery,
The obscured, the absurd,
The underwater, the unheard.
In God's peripheral, there are
Dykes who spike their morning coffee,
Agoraphobic Adderal addicts, the naked and baked.
The observers see the perverts pissing on the perfect,
Pissing off the person who gives them a purpose.
Why create a freak if you mock their uniqueness?
Peripherally, you can see
The quips of bitches with pierced nipples and clits,
The sluts with big tits and hairy armpits,
With a nose that protrudes and distracts from her boobs,
Cast off, sent to the periphery.
Cropped out of the photographs,
Half of the figure is enough.
Fistfuls of pharmaceuticals, coughing up puffs of smoke.
You’ll go to the periphery,
You’ll find those who love the snow and wear
Headphones to shovel it, Who rouse the crowds
Of men in torn robes and women in towels.
They’re all renowned for their loudness,
For saying fuck the focality, fuck the
Penthouses and towers, fuck people who remember to shower.
The periphery is home for
Boys who don't floss and look ordinary enough
To fool the fools into ignoring him,
So he can get back to whoring and adoring
And arousing, snorting powder,
Throwing money down for a pounding.
They would spend hours looking for food and spending
Countless dollars on liquor, downing the vodka now and saving
The snacks for later.
They break into houses and kick the doors down,
Those peripheral idiots,
They throw good parties there.

im different when my hair is red

 

hisssss

stomach sickness ensures seeing cesspools of slop and slime seeping slowly, smoothly cinching sensual secrets safe, so sins and sorrows slips swift escapes. spend and sleep and spend, issues somehow spread uselessly. so swell, says the soul, missing sweet sensations, some sprinkling some and softly swirling, so she spit sour shit at my shoes. sorry stoners, sometimes shortness in sighs signify some scary syndromes. so simply it should seem, somehow so mysterious, so solidified, so sleepy. so long, spring! 

a sonnet about my hair

my hair has been tearing out of my head

but the tears tear through my tearful scalp

i use extra strength conditioner to try to help

but I've bleached it so much its probably dead.

chunks came out during the dances i led,

but it never hurts, i just comb through and yelp

because i dont want to be bald, so i say welp,

and buy more treatments for it, then go to bed.

 

i see pictures of my hair the way it used to be,

thick, flowing like a river, with a gentle curl,

only in place because of the ponytail i sleep in.

i used to need to tie an elastic around one, two, three,

times to keep my hair in place, but now i can whirl

it in a small tight bun, and hold it with a pin.

 

abundancy

 someone asked me a few days ago if i knew what the word abundant meant. i said yes, because i did. it hurt my feelings.

my fiftieth

 i shook myself a cocktail

(cranberry juice and weed

drink) so i could relax after

a long day of inproductivity.

there are simple ways to 

show love to myself. i wish

i could draw the way i did in 

high school but now there is

so much to admire about a 

person i used to hate. my 

sober teenage years created

a vaper and a weed fiend but 

thats all i could have ever 

have expected of myself. I

wish i had the paint my father

got me for christmas. i loved

being able to use supplies i 

could never afford myself. I

miss my edginess and willingness

to tell everyone how cutely 

suicidal i was. attached is some

of the art i was most proud of

back then. I still picture myself 

with deep brown hair.

good enough

even though i menstruate very 32 days exactly and it follows the same progression every time i will continue to use it as an excuse to be a bitch and lie around all day. but maybe i’ll clean my room first. or maybe ill go to half my classes even though i don’t want to go to any. maybe i can put my clothes in the laundry while i nap instead of living in the dirty ones i’ve been living in for a week. maybe i have three kidneys. maybe i have no liver. maybe my room will stay clean this time.

now

 im watching the grammys and i slept a lot today. i threw up last night but (despite my nakedness) i made it to the bathroom in time. i took a shot whenever i was prompted. 17 people bit my necklace. 34 looked at my boobs. i told the truth too much and i lied only a little. i said a prayer every shot i took. everyone knew i knew all the prayers and it made me popular. i meant to take lots of pictures but i took 0 (that i remember). who the fuck is teddy swims.