3.4.13On my twenty-second birthday myhair will smell of lemons andmy skin will smell of passionfruitand coconuts.I will never move to New York.
001I want to sleep with sunlight pouring through my window.Not to waste the day, but to dream in light for a change.
UnrequitedMy hands smell of you.Even now, in the morning after a raging war and empty bed,I’m not sure how to wipe you offmy skin, but I’m hoping this water will scaldmy flesh and burn off the memory of empty pressure.I wanted so bad to erupt—to rip apart flesh and bone and feel more naked than I was but I screamed a name that wasn’t yoursand felt my heart wither underyour hands.
passenger seat He rolled the windows down and alternated between lazily drifting over dirt and grass roads and speeding down the occasional paved one. He smoked one cigarette after another as he told me about the area’s history, about the mango orchards and he’s theories on the swamp ape. Or some strange monster he made up that was half crocodile, half bear. Or was it pig? We talked about aliens and I told him about gigantopithecus, which is the possible scientific explanation for bigfoot. When we came upon a particular stretch of paved road, James pulled himself halfway out of the car. He sat on the window sill, his foot still on the gas, his
floridai left my dignity in gainesville,lost my mind in orlando,found my heart in miami,only to leave it in pieces
VibrationsVibrations build and drop pouring out of this vacant heartI see the pieces on the floorfragments of what was beforeDisapointments weigh heavyand dreams fall lazyA song plays somewherethoughtless and careless andwho was that girl who was sounknowingly fearless?I don't see her anymore
while you sleepI know nothing of your mythologies,your comedies or tragedies, but I know the feel of your skin, andhow your eyes move behind your lidswhile you sleep.