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JANUARY
i’m so many miles above california nevada colorado but not you.never ct.
the east coast will wash out as you do, and i’ll still have a dream in the airplane that we’re fucking, but in real life you’re down there not probably thinking about last night or this morning or thelate one before.
there are so many new things i’m learning to really love in college. like it’s not about the east coast anymore but about my mama’s ancestry, about new york or connecticut exclusively, about UFOs on the quad or spying on a bunch of boys smoking out the window while we were trying to fall asleep. he said so many things. like the way his eyes get wide while i’m taking, wide in shock it looks like, but he isn’t he just laughs it off and uses words like absolutely and luxury and and yourself. and i say i don’t know. i shrug but i’m propped up on my elbows so my shoulders barely move.i don’t know.
he asks for me to do something and i always do, i love it, a not knowing even a little who i am anymore. feeling okay if i started getting Bs. the first time we talked the whole through and through some miracle our pants stayed on. but now it’s straight to it or a quick hour of worship first. or i’m in a meeting thinking about how i want it and then at 1138 you text because you might too. or at least something, a hard on in the middle of the night, a little spoon. what i love is california dewey in march. the dead gophers waiting by my bed, and my aunt naked in her garden, and my whole town full of witches. what i love is new york on a hot spring day behind sanders. a middle of the night lying on our stomachs spying on the streetlamps after such consensual sex. i miss you and my throat burns we’d touch but you’re six thousand miles away i keep saying i don’t know. 27 June with 8 notes i’d say i was shaped in little ways in the littlest bits of information she gave me before i turned 19, and oh the hurricane that came after a new way of feeling the push back i listen to all night and think of youall night
awake lying next to me in a single bed in college in a dorm room where the curtains don’t close all the way where it’s never dark but for me inside it’s the deep indigo of not knowing a color i wouldn’t want to show you, a goodbye we barely spent leaving now the days fall in quiet white petals where you shouldn’t havetouched her
now when i say yes i mean it more than ever but somehow that’s stopped meaning anything22 May with 7 notes
i get published in
little bits by bits and bit by bit you ebb away till my skin pulls back the worst part now is that i’m violated when you don’t touch me like the shame comes as you go (my advancement from your recession) i am getting better at sharing better at letting my body loosewhen
you convince me that i can’t get addicted to anythingwhen
i come over and lose a pack of cigarettes in your roomwhen
i keep your hallway smell on my skin for days i wear your tshirt to sleep even after i give it back i feel degraded when you stop forcingyour hands in.
i miss everyone.
i wish i could tell you more like i’m prepared to reveal to you a history that was first given tome at eleven,
a history i then shared with alya at the top of a redwood tree, a tree that soon stood for me as a representation of my father’s own roots as he explained their fragility a tree that later took on her papa’s legacy too early. and now i think back to those moments and remember that you could barely know our west coast like we have swallowed it deep. i have let the west grow in me. the west has let me grow. i work my words piece by piece and slowly our words are turning as our hands aren’t a drifting across the mattress but an anchor keeping me still. 28 April with 2 notes the worst part is that i’ve lost my perspective like in a few years i can’t imagine seeing you and being unfazed i can’t imagine not caring. there’s barely a way i can keep thisgoing you know.
i like the little things the why are you touching me in the morning still it hurts and it hurts. i feel like i’m flying back to new york. i feel like i’m in a field of california poppies. everything i swear is so tainted. my body especially. no one ever talks about giving that back. like i can renounce stealing if it makes me think of you, and 21st century ambassadors of peace and magic, and all of the little things (mostly in my thoughts or like coral or clams or glass or nail polish whatever) but my body just can’t let go. i can’t get myself back. instead i try to breathe deep while i’m falling asleep and i try not to go crazy on the way to friday. like fuck. my body. my ridges, you pushed your hand against my sternum, against deep in my chest. my insides shoved back but really they caved in. my body your fingertips, my body my failures. my grandmother signing off on my giving myself away. but she never said how hard the comeback would be, how i’d find it so difficult to reclaim possession. and how i would stay up late making it hurt, and how of course when i write about it i can make a poem and feel okay, but when it’s real it is slicing. when it’s real it’s not big words or dreams, it’s just a blunt i’m not good enough. another reason to feel fucked up about my body. another reason to get toohigh.
13 April with 2 notes he makes me feel like i’m floating but in a weird way. like i’ve been swallowed into some other world. like my heart is beating too fast while i imagine you doing little things while i imaginetouching.
you had your hand on the small of my back smoking out the window, a dance i would do for attention, a way i wanted to touch you but she wouldn’t let meyou feel like
a new season
a slow disintegration though a body washing piece by piece dry down the shower drain, a meeting that you don’t want to meet me after, a melting that can’t be reversed, a yes you are touching my back the small of it yes i am starving and laughing and trying to be numb you hold my hand i grip back so hard that you probably try to forget & i can’t make marks that are already there & i feel so high when i am sober when i am not around you like i’d blow pot smoke out your window all night and still be shrouded in a clarity that the absence makes me lose i’m not even talking about california anymore about my home about my harpsongs but instead this place which i swear is so tainted, especially my body no one ever talks about giving that back. 12 April with 3 notes in bed high in college baked off my ass with the rain sounds coating odesza and the seawater spraying on our golden state im listening to rain sounds to help me sleep to get me dreaming and odesza to think about hannah or doing my makeup nice before going to work or little bits of weed and the elephant pipe now i wish i were sunny listening to hippie sabotage in a different state, like nevada or maybe northern california orsouthern organ
there i’d be eating shitty food and hearing myself bounce off themountains
there i’d be like this all the time without good weeks of fullness of witchcraft of my lung expansion capacity whatever bullshitmy mom called
i listened to a different album my mom called and i listened to joni mitchell and i sat there avidly for days and days on end and i couldn’t eat and i can’t ever again down by the yuba river down my joanna little leaflessness seated in the shallows at the park or the sea i’m walking down the street thinking about walking down the street this is why i can’t trust you this is where he touched this is where i couldn’t stop thinking about it my heart might explode just want my river beds, my goldfish, my rotten fruit under my barefeet
my iron my metallic necklacemy eucalyptus trees
26 February with 4 notes you should know that i didn’t stop writing for you. i stopped writing because i felt like i needed a knife. because i woke up in the middle of the night to a text tone and i wasn’t quite sure if i had fallen asleep in the first place. where can i find you? i was listening to the Life of Pablo in the early morning i was looking at the snowflakes up close and when it happened for the first time in eleventh grade my best friends fucked up, but at least not as badly as he did, and also emily was there in the morning so i’m still standing. when we woke up we ate honey and drank earl grey tea with milk. i peeled the fruit and sliced off the bruised parts with my favorite pinkknife.
i was listening to Joanna Newsom and it hit me like the air when we walked out of the airport in florida or when i said goodbye to my mom last night or when he said no and i said thank god but it happened anyway Here i pray with my boy on a rooftop in New York and tell him about ben. i lay there early in the morning after sleeping in a separate bed. i let him use my plastic breathalyzer. i compare our sore legs. our cut knuckles. our drunk knife games our wounds and the joints he rolls and the shots swishing around and my sharp teeth pure white. at night i’m swollen up like a whale. i touch my whale belly. i hate myself. i hate anyone who has ever felt me. informally i’m slumped across his bedpost while the alcohol kicks in. or i listen to a new song and hear a new voice. i hear eric. i’m in the library waiting for it to feel like college. 24 February with 5 notes i told luke that it’s the kind of sad where something washes overyou slowly
while it’s snowing, and your new friends are singing the head and the heart and they don’t understand how personal that is how i wanted to just run out of there and fall down in the middle of the quad and give myself back to the senior year, back to all the times i felt the pain so fresh, more than a dull ache that mostly just makes me grind my teeth in mysleep
i can’t wake up next to anyone and i left california for something better, and found thick rivers and train tracks and boys on blankets in the woods smoking weed, i found something great here as we wandered into the dollar store and bought shotglasses and broke shotglasses and took shots as i did coke even when i promised myself i wouldn’t and gave myself a million tattoos but i hate it, sometimes, it’s almost ruined me to be still waiting here near the hudson hurting inside of myself listening to foxygen year round and associating it with the wrongboy
and listening to the guitar strums and feeling the longing welling upinside of me
i miss vermont
when the mountains fell we were stirring honey into our tea suddenly in college i fucking hate writing 8 February with 8 notes i thought about you in the middle of the night when the girls next to me were bumping the bass too loud i love college i love california she told me all the fucked up shit knocked over the little statue i’ve created watched it crumble to pieces, watched me kneel down explained everything except the hand holding last month i wrote something romantic about someone else and three days ago i was pining over a different person and now it’s you towering over everything like for a year he was complicated and now simplified to a few titles, a nightmare that i can wake up from quietly, fleeing on a fleeting sunday night 3 February with 3 notesalone in the dark
when you took my hand and it swallowed mine or when i went a few days without eating anything just to be the tide responding to the moon again 30 January with 5 notesnext
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