have i hit the age where i decide
the extra plate of fries. the extra nap.
the extra time i set aside to reminisce about people
i no longer exist to.
could it be that i built my heart into
a 12 story mansion?
i wrote a list of my best talents,
one of them included “wasting time.”
sometimes i feel like you don’t tell me everything.
i spend too much time in front of the mirror
feeling myself up because nobody else will.
more like, i won’t let them anyway.
could it be that i’m learning more and more
each night that there are different hues of damage
capable of occurring?
because this is news to me.
i knew someone who wrote her neighbor
secret love letters because he resembled
her ex-lover. this is wasting time.
you are humming a song and it makes
me think of hospital corridors.
i lean my head against the window,
and all i can see is the color blue.
no song is ever terrible when you’re
in a car full of friends.
all you feel is the color of warmth.
i hope you only have dreams that give you
the right answers,
because mine don’t.
things have been good, but there’s a ribbon of sadness unraveling itself from my heart. i’m happy, i’m happy, i’m happy, but today i saw a woman eating spaghetti by herself. she wrote “happy birthday to me!” on the table with a purple crayon. she spent 15 minutes in the bathroom. she looked at the waiter as if he reminded her of someone from her past—maybe some boy she shared candy with on the elementary school bus.
i can’t admit to being sad, i can only reassure myself that sometimes the best thing i can do is eat wendy’s in my car during midnight. savor the taste of french fries dipped in chocolate frosty, enjoy the taste of the stars exhaling into the sky. enjoy the taste of dusk in your mouth. remember you as a cold hand on the summer of my forehead, you are all the hangover cures, a bouquet of cherry stems i could never tie with my tongue right, a small feeling of pride and optimism after taking the first glimpse at a big paycheck. i think it’s been 6 paychecks since i last saw you. you in all the glory of cheap hotels and 24 hour diners and truck stops. this is the kinda sadness exclusively felt by those kinda places, my body is littered with maps and souvenirs and postcards wishing you were here. here, next to me, let our lips do what hands do what souls do how they dance as if, as if maybe they were ribbons unraveling itself from the heavy box of a hoarder’s heart. i’m happy, i’m happy, i’m happy, but only in a way that suggests me dancing alone in a room i’ve declared a private nightclub,
in a way that illustrates a cartoon painting of me patiently waiting for someone to say “stay with me,”
and not because i keep drifting in and out of consciousness in front of them.
Nineteen things I’ve learned before I turned nineteen.(via maikalehua)
1. Always carry $5 and a lighter with you (even if you don’t smoke).
2. Ask every person you meet how their day is going. Genuinely ask with the soul intention of learning how their day is. Ask the coffee shop employee. Ask the person next to you in line at Walmart. Ask your distant friend. Ask everyone.
3. Take many photos of yourself. Take photos of yourself when you’re happy. Take photos of yourself when you’re sad. Take photos of yourself because there are millions of trees in the world, and we all look at the same sky, but there is only one of you.
4. Stay in contact with your parents. Try not to hate them. They are the reason you have the ability to feel anything at all. Try not to hate your parents.
5. Opening your skin will not set your demons free. Open your heart. Open your mind. Open your hands.
6. Nobody knows anybody completely. That’s okay.
7. Be gentle, but be aggressive. Take a stand. Nobody hears your voice if you stay silent.
8. Respect everybody. We are all humans trying to survive. We all deserve respect.
9. Wearing black will ALWAYS make you feel better about yourself.
10. Always give tips, whether it be a couple extra dollars or a piece of mind. You never know how much you could be helping someone.
11. Change is the only thing consistent in life. Do not allow that bother you. Embrace chance and move with life, whichever direction it chooses to take you.
12. Smile often. Smile at strangers. Smile at your friends. Smile when nobody is looking and you’re alone in your bedroom. Smile when somebody is rambling to you.
13. Body image means nothing. Your body is merely just a seatbelt in the car. Your body is here to protect you. You choose the direction you go, and your body will not hold you back. Only you can hold yourself back.
14. Don’t hold grudges. Don’t allow yourself to hate anybody. Forgive them. Learn to love them for the person you never got to see them to be. Believe that a beautiful human exists in that person. Wish them well.
15. Drink orange juice. Lots of it.
16. Don’t allow the opinions of others to choose your destiny. We are all simply trying to live our own life.
17. Sing all the time. Sing off key. Sing in a silly voice. Sing like you’re on stage. Sing no matter who is around. Singing is breathing for the soul. Sing.
18. Take time to think. Write your feelings down. Write letters to the people you love. Texting is overrated and not as heartfelt as a nice handwritten letter.
19. Live for yourself. Breathe for yourself. Do everything in your life for nobody but you. This is your life. This is it.
Kirsty Hume in Going Native photographed by Mario Testino for UK Vogue, September 1997
How to love your depressed lover.(via girlchoking)
Last night I thought I kissed the loneliness from out your belly button. I thought I did, but later you sat up, all bones and restless hands, and told me there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo. I never know what to say to these things. “It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.” “Please don’t go away again.” Sometimes you are gone for days at a time and it is all I can do not to call the police, file a missing person’s report, even though you are right there, still sleeping next to me in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders. Except in this case I am the intruder and you are already locked up so tight that no one could possibly jimmy their way in. Last night I thought I gave you a reason not to be so sad when I held your body like a high note and we both trembled from the effort.
Some people, though, are sad against all reason, all sensibility, all love. I know better now. I know what to say to the things you admit to me in the dark, all bones and restless hands. “It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.” “Please come back to me again.
i’m dancing alone in a room
i’ve declared a private nightclub.
this is the shade of bliss that i chose to wear—
even swatched it across my hand before applying.
and these are the memories i’ve chosen to make:
ones that involve amps and microphone stands and
discarded drumsticks and hastily scrawled set lists and
paper wristbands from previous shows
still intact on wrists because
god forbid you sever the tether latching you
onto some miracle of a night.
and ghosts are what i’m choosing to be unafraid of
because i know one. and i still search for her at parties—
baggie of xanax in hand. musing about how she
still sleeps on the right side of her bed because she hasn’t grown
accustomed to a lover, gone.
and how he sleeps on the left side of his own bed too.
and here’s the reason i cried the night you told me
you weren’t in love with me:
it’s because i put too much tabasco on my pasta.
and instead of apologizing, you just continued watching comedy central with me.
you mentioned that i look beautiful when i cry.
and truth be told,
it’s not that i was rendered speechless.
it’s just that i’ve been endowed with the wrong language.
and i don’t know what word to use after
the most gut wrenching moment occurs.
the moment you snatched my heart from
its home, i wanted to ask you why
you never listened to your fucking mother
when she taught you to put things back where they belong.
i like to think that you did it out of rebellion,
even though you’re not the type to sleep on ratty mattresses
that reek of sweaty skin and ash.
i guess you’re just a different breed of subversive,
a mouth of words neglected, a fleeting miracle
jumping from train to
and i guess i’m the same breed of melancholy
a book half-read, a radio station skipped
waving wet handkerchiefs from
departure gate to wretched