Tumblr?
I forgot about you…what with Pinterest & all.
Hey, it’s me. :P
July 16th: early AM
I should be getting my new record player in soon. Getting my fill of Jett Jackson: The Movie. Sea World tomorrow :)
Ducks!
I met a guy in Academic Plaza on Friday that owns two ducks named Daphne & Ferdinand. He raises them in his dorm.
Legitimately the most adorable things I’ve EVER seen.
EVER!
He got them off of Craig’s List…
And so am I. Right now.
To day is definitely a ballet day. I wish I had more room than that little square part of my dorm bathroom for just me. :)
I need to find a studio ASAP!
veggie chicken burger + spinach on wheat.
corn & carrots :)
that’s as good as it’s gonna get in a dorm.
oh life’s little luxuries ;)
Antiquing.
That stale scent that smells like cedar and old worn cotton
Holds me every time I step in that door.
Knocking me head over heels with lust for its touch.
It takes me by the hand and waltzes me around to Billie Holiday.
It whispers in my ear all of its stories held within it’s belly like the caterpillar that never bloomed from the cocoon.
Because that’s what the stories were.
Boring stale cedar living.
Of canoe rides in a lake with the man of her dreams.
And kisses shared secretly in the back alley on Turnberry Boulevard.
Of the stress of a bad hair day spent vigorously in the vain vanity.
It tells me of film and cameras and the letters sent to Tony.
Tony loved her. Told her she was beautiful. That she was worth all of his fight and more.
He promised her a wedding. And the house of her dreams.
As soon as he came back.
Tony loved her in that stained yellow letter.
That came with the one of his death.
Tells me which notes were played the most because they were favored over the rest.
And when the entire piano seems mute, it surprises you with a heartbeat when we touch.
The lenses shelved above every photograph puts you there
In the dust and the brick.
And the beating sun on the cotton picking south.
Finding doors and cupboards and old trunks filled with treasures has all the promise in such a past of crossed fingers.
The dust lingers like the honesty that was mistaken for lies somewhere along the way.
Lingers like the bad decisions made in every bloodline and the bad decisions to come.
It makes it more tangible.
Plausible that life is and was filled with mistakes but everyone leaves something of some kind of worth when they pass.
Ode to Clothes
So, I read last night for the first time @ Open Mic in Bryan. Needless to say I started crying hah. But here it is.
Ode to Clothes.
I love you.
More than any man could love me.
But, it’s not just any
Run of the “clothes mill” kinda love.
It’s more of a…
What my soul depends on kinda love.
Clothes.
You are. By far.
The most versatile things I own.
So quiet unworn
So outspoken when on.
Humble me.
You fit perfect over me.
Cover these stitches and seams so no one can see
That these good intentions fall short of these invisible incisions.
Cover my insecurities.
My insecurity.
Ten year old.
Fingers are in themselves a story told.
Down my throat.
Clothes, you hide that my heart is broken
That every roll on this belly here
I can cough up to eating…
FILTH
…Is written across my mouth.
I am filth.
I am an addict.
Food is a drug.
I just want what I lack
Give me my sober back.
Clothes,
I went 5 years with you as my accomplice.
Fighting crime.
We were heroes
My hero…
SUPER…skinny.
Clothes
I liked you BIG.
Hahha, you know?
It made me look smaller when I was next to you.
Fighting crime.
You knew no one ever took the fat security guard seriously.
Crime wouldn’t take me either unless I had you.
Clothes, you came in every fit.
But these flaws are flawed in themselves.
So supportive in this algebraic miscalculation adding up to
Shit.
You can’t cover my tears.
But my tears haven’t come from these eyes in a while.
Crying has turned into the prominence of a new rib.
We never told mom how I was so good with a fib.
Do you remember that day.
DOOMS day. Fighting crime seemed to hault for us.
Mirror, mirror in this hell.
Held me up before I fell.
Falling to my knees to pray to my Saint
Anthony, answer my prayers.
Patron of lost things and missing people.
Help me find my
SELF
Please.
Help.
Me.
See here good Saint.
This ground holds tight my knees to the floor
When the toilet couldn’t take the weight of my problem anymore.
St. Anthony, I’m afraid I’ll break this support.
Mother found out.
DOOMS DAY we called it.
She said
“You have a problem mija. You need to eat”
On my bones I had “deteriorating” skin.
I told her
There’s a difference between skin and sin
MOTHER
There’s an extra K.
Am I OK?
No. I swear I’m OK.
“Rehab.”
Rehab is for addicts and I’m getting rid of this addiction.
Therapists?
They’re nice. I guess.
3 years I ate.
In an attempt for some kind of health
FIX.
Exorcise me.
Force feeding is a demon in itself.
Mirror, mirror.
In this hell.
Clothes,
Restrain these hands from…
Haha.
I bought you too loose.
You couldn’t restrain me if you tried.
I bought you for the sole reason
To hide these
Mountains and basins
And chasms.
These
Caverns.
Cave kisses. My bones kiss me.
My bones talk to me.
They chatter every time I look in this mirror.
The mirrors don’t change when you go away to school.
The glass is just as sharp and it’s tongue is just as harsh.
But it’s so much easier
Now that she doesn’t know.
My mother doesn’t know
I found my clothes again.
Holding me like no man ever would.
Me AND my problem.
Me and my solution.
Ode to clothes.
You are the best thing since…WONDERBREAD
