where am i

I am not old school
was not raised that way
liberal transplanted parents
blazed that trail for what it's worth
they lost what they wanted, but is it something I want now
something I appreciate
something I respect

i say honey you're too old for this, come on
too old for some things maybe
but we are still young
our experiences limited
and our conversations still young

Fuck it, I love you.

All these lives

I love where I live. I love you fucked up assholes who are my neighbors. Fuck you, I love you.

Things I want:

• a porcelain claw foot tub
• wood floors 4eva
• a window seat
• a willow tree with a wooden swing
  

Darling, you are like no one I know. I wish to take you away from this place where everyone knows us and spend 3 months alone with you in a place without iPhones, without computers, without television, and lay on a patchwork quilt, the warmth of a lit fireplace washing over our feet as one-by-one we reveal all our secrets and fears and every irrelevant dumb story that somehow naturally weaves its way into serious conversation. We will pretend we are the only people who exist, the only people we've ever known.

...and I want to say that by the end none of it ever mattered and it was like a Vietnamese vacation that oh 'so changed your life' but you live it the same two days after as you did two days before, but I cannot write. I cannot write because I guess I just don't fucking want to. Either that or I'm so goddamn nervous about time and I can't write something good in such a short amount of time I have to eat before work even though I'm not hungry.

So this must wait another day. On that day I will feel just as anxious no matter how much time I have because I'm 25 years old and live in New York City and am supposed to be 'living my life' which means going out and 'taking advantage of what the city has to offer' you bitch. DUH.

The Right Thing

Today, I'm going to start by taking it back and end by moving forward. And hopefully I'll stop talking in clichés and motivational phrases. But who knows. Maybe I won't.

I would like to say I want to remember who I was, if ever I was anyone, but I was always terrible. I used to tell myself I know I'm a good person despite everything, but I feel that every chance I've had to make the wrong decision and do bad, I have. How could I have ever thought I was good?

There are things I might not be able to change, but this is one I think I can. I've never tried. I am selfish and I hurt people, and everyone is not a joke. Everyone has feelings and the only people who deserve them hurt are the ones who do the same to others without remorse.

I tried to excuse myself the other day and say, I wasn't ready, I didn't know. Maybe that's how it works, though. I wouldn't know, but I have to figure it out.

oh i see now it's just smoke

The Good Ol' Days

Now that I believe I definitely qualify as an adult, there are some things I'd like to say of my younger years. Of course there are a lot of things I miss about being younger. And I could say, like everyone else, I only wish I could go back, and sometimes I do I fucking do, but I think there are things I can do to make my adult life satisfying. You've got to leave certain things, behaviors in the past. At once, though, they were wonderful.



Forgive me for posting anything Kings of Leon...but I saw this video and think it is really nice. When things were new and fun and everything was bad and hurt so good.

A Waste of Time

He said 'don't waste my time' 'you better not be wasting my time' and she swore it wasn't, that she wouldn't because how the fuck will you know if you never let the thing off the ground?

And how is anything supposed to get off the ground if you don't give it time? How do you expect it to fly if instead of giving it time you push it off a cliff and hope for the best? Blind faith is at once pedestrian and beautiful. Believing in something without having to know every dirty detail simply because it touches you has a vulnerable power found nowhere else. Like maybe, but I don't care about all that, I still love her.

Give me a chance, a second chance. This is no game of chance, darling, and certainly not of second chance for no such thing exists and if it did I would not play for that is STUPID AS ARE YOU

Motherfuckers

so don't come back for me

I'm listening to terrible music eating ginger candy in an effort to distract myself from the brass-wrapped strings splitting my heart in five. That's not even natural. Anxious about the possibility of a decrease in productivity from today to tomorrow, I sit here with the blaring overhead light making visible all my flaws and it disgusts me that I am alone in my apartment typing on a computer. That is disgusting to me. A computer. Typing. The sound it makes sickens me and I try to remember that just a few hours ago I was browsing the Chinese supermarket on Hester Street. But even then I had my Goddamn iPhone. This also makes me sick and my fucking contacts are dry from staring at screens but I can't wear my headphones with my glasses on because it hurts my temples and I can't wear my headphones connected to my iPhone.

Upon opening the front door, I smell the dish water sponge and stove gas and my eyes hurt. I plug in the Christmas lights and put down my phone. I take a notebook off the bookshelf and grab the pen off the white thing. I sit for hours thinking about one of the many things I shouldn't. My eyes burn and the notebook falls off the foot of the bed and the pen is lost in the sheets. I pick up my phone, sit on the couch, turn on the TV.

I WANT I WANT I WANT cannot have. But I don't really want anything. I have everything I need, I just need to reorganize and re-utilize the things I already have in a more correct fashion in order to be happier. I am un-glad at the moment. This is mainly due intense guilt. Lazy fucking guilt. That jacket looks so small hanging up but it fits so big. This is how this is how. That's what that looks like, but what it is is just not the same. In fact it is different and unsatisfying. Wrong, even. Wrong, mostly.

Pretty, smart, funny

My hands smell of blood, the blood I was born with

Dawn

and so the blood bloomed.
Geranium red through white dressings.
all who beheld gasped with disgust
turned away in shame
went home
cried
for days