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I wake up each
morning wanting
more of you.First, it was your
lips, then it was
your hands, nowit is your heart.
Now, it is always
your heart.
She scares me because I believe in the strength of her passion. Beside her I worry that I’m fraudulent; that I’ve even conned myself into believing in my depth. Still I charge head-first through fear, because not trying is tragic, and I’m addicted to her influence.
a.m.
I spent the weekend in Las Vegas in the most beautiful hotel. Everywhere I went struck me. The best vibes set in and I was taking in and wanting to remember all of it. You don’t want to forget things like air at 4am or a taxi ride down the strip and the lights through slow and drunken eyes. Those have always been my best memories. I spent part of the trip alone outside flirting with a gf back in California and wanting to make love to somebody. I really let the smile of the musician settle in my heart because when he took my hand and kissed it goodbye I felt really self aware and I mean that in the best way. I looked pretty and felt sexy in my skin. I wanted to eye fuck and carried emotion for people far away (a habit that makes me feel mysterious but can turn into something dangerous.) my weekend ended with a summer storm on the drive home and the sweet sweet smell of the desert night. These are the things I want to remember.
Where do you go when your house isn’t home?
a.m.
So fuck me. But fuck you too for losing your desire to have anything good. Fuck you for your stubborn stand stills and for your manipulations. Fuck you for deciding that the dark place you want to settle in is more important than kindness and respect and affection. I hate you for showing no fucking concern or compassion, no love or understanding.
Who are you anyhow?
Why do you put your self esteem in the hands of complete strangers?
p.m.
I like when things feel romantic. Not gestures but the air and lighting and moods. There are things that I do for myself but if I’m being real honest I know it would fill my heart to the brim if someone sat with me to enjoy them. I’m in the bath listening to music reading with a candle and soft lighting. I’m having a drink and wondering if you were here would you come and sit on the floor beside the tub and read with me? Maybe lean back on the toilet facing me and talk about how thick the air feels and what sort of trip we can imagine taking. Or I’d have you get in with me and nap because it’s fucking hot up here and I’m only in the tub because summers in Los Angeles can be brutal. But instead I can hear the two fans buzzing in my bedroom where my husband is tossing and turning. Maybe he’s reading. Maybe jacking off. But probably not thinking of me and I’m alone in the bath convincing myself that this sadness and longing is romantic not lonely.
p.m.
Happy birthday bby.
Nobody like you ever came along. And without you I just lead myself to trouble. I fall in love with everybody and pick the ones that will make life hard. What’s new tho? Maybe I just never grew. Maybe I do it to spite you, but all I’ve done is fuck myself. I’m trying to get it together. The intention is there.
Maybe next year will be the year.
Your birthday is my new year. Summer is when I make promises for change and dream ridiculous, impossible dreams.
I miss you and I’m still angry that you died.
