If you look at rats for a while, squirrels start to look really big.

Face my legs and the striped skirt 

Ocean floor burn.

…leans down through the doorway and looks into the car, into my chest, but doesn’t find the whole truth.

The shape of your back and the way you talk are now familiar. How insanely cool is that??

Our fault maybe, we’re transitioning everything over. Over? Over to what. Over over its over silly. So sorry I’ll keep my eye out, in the 1000s, yes? Not your fault. Yes. Name? How long ago? No idea. No clue, maybe not ever but I didn’t want to believe that. Didn’t want to admit I was there purely out of hope, a sad, pitiful kind. Because I shouldn’t anymore. So instead, I constructed my own reality, lying to the man for my mind’s sake, saying umm maybe __(insert period of time)__.

See, then you think too much about it and it’s already gone. A fleeting icy second! Too bad, to bad baby. It’s in hott hot milliseconds that flash by so hot they become cold. OOO jumpy. Like a blue fire, so hot it’s cold. So hot I’m cold. So hot that my heart is stone. Kidding not hot. But to myself? Yes, yes of course what else would you expect? I love being with myself and alone. She says, repeating until she believes it enough to be the half truth, half serious.  But am I a better person for it, yes I reside to myself yes. Yes of course. I taught me, you taught me, you taught me not to care later and that was good too. 

Fate fate fate. Pulls me down and brings me to sit comfortably, legs crossed on an old dirty pillow. I can feel the dust against my thighs. I look down and twist my foot, stepping on whatever I hate and despise, trying to mush it into the ground. But my shoes only get dirtier. And the worms decide to crawl through and become shoelaces. Bugs crawl in and out of my eyes and ears, to my fingers, fly away and come back. It rains and the worms come to the surface of my pores and leave blindly, some drown, some dry up on the sidewalk, some make it to the dirt. There it is, left breathing, just staring up at the sky, not dead but not really alive either. Just resting until I sink into the ground and become grass again.

AND I WAKE UP mourning the loss of someone I never knew and never had…they existed in my head, in my sleep. The thing is though the face is known, so, see?? it’s a whole mindfuck

You get a taste, taste like the raspberry jam filled cookie. Hums of voices low vibrations very very very chipped edges of tables. Who had to knock on wood too many times? What child ran headfirst into the corner of the table. Maybe the one the woman in line is holding though they probably can’t walk yet. Many pieces of paper layered up over each other ohhh like the rock in Michigan with layers and layers of paint. I wonder where the paint ends and the rock begins. Or is it all just paint now. Or has the paint itself formed into a rock, solid? Metamorphic or sedimentary. IGNEOUS. ingenious. I’m very tempted to eat the leftovers in front of me that the past people left. To wrap my finger around the inside of a used mug, getting what’s left of stale coffee foam.

It smells like the color gray and dust and sweat and smoke and I remember for a second so I sit about it later 

Sit with my hands under my legs so they can’t move or make weird sounds

Sit so my fingerprints press into my thighs and I brand myself with curls and waves 

With the smells and the pictures and the do nothing no good of boots and sweaty shirts 

And time down the sidewalk well spent on wondering what if 

50 times my eyes hovered closing through sleep and 50 times I tried to wake up again

Eating chocolate cake until I get a headache

Hmmmmm what else

Time to move on!

I think they carry too much. I think they’re sad, heavy, but won’t admit it. Only with offhand comments or I’m better nows. I want to hold them until it heals, feels even a bit lighter, to tell them it's okay. But I can’t. So I stand in silence, waiting.  

Some fuck ass fleeting sense of solidity that quickly becomes nothing but blaming your thoughts 

A wet plate vs. a dry plate, the idea of “capturing” even while water runs through your fingers and hands. A wet plate of memories, a marsh of thoughts, of sinking mussels and foggy ideals washed away by silver boots. Freeze! Freeze, to freeze and thaw is an act of warmth, of love, an exchange of heat and fragile promises. Fragile like the lace edge of a wave, where two things meet, a point of contact and exchange, compromises defined by either side.