And I slept in a smoking room. Silhouettes of stubbed out cigarettes line the comforter and I have not been eating well.
I braved the city on my own, and made a fool of myself on every bus.
And it’s funny how things work out, because we never talked, not before all this, not really. We made our commute in silence and we put everything we wanted to say in cards for Christmas and moments of weakness, like before you sent me off to prom with that boy I was sure I was going to grow old with, and now every time when I visit you. It’s a funny thing to cope with.
Because I was so certain, and when I am certain, nothing can break me. And then the certainty was pulled out from under me like a rug meant for a beating, and I feel like the worst. I feel like I am not meant for this, I am not meant to visit you. Because it isn’t fair. Because I was so certain. Because I was positive the worst was right around the corner, I’ve seen ravens on every telephone wire, staring at me with pity. And ravens don’t pity. But they knew. They knew you, they knew me, they knew what was to come.
And then it didn’t.
This place really does have the best views of the bay.
i wanna look like someone who can cut you but still bakes cookies in her spare time
Mover, R; 89 year old male; disposition: expired.
There’s a man behind the curtain who just wants something to eat. He says ma’am with a southern drawl but everything else is Californian. And he’s aching and I wonder what’s wrong with everyone, even his nurse with the blanket wrapped around her waist like a towel but a blanket.
I was going to teach him how I planned on getting an agent. He was going to be reassured and proud that I chose to do what I love. We were going to see the new muppets movie because that’s what we do, we see movies and watch tv and eat food.
I wonder if it all tastes like nickels or soap this time around. I had hopes it would taste like food. But it probably doesn’t if he’s not eating it.
It was going to be a good last week, because, not projecting bad energy, just projecting bad practicalities, this has got to be the last week. The end of August is too late. This is it this is it this is it.
It’s cute that you thought this was going to be a vacation ever. After Christmases spent amongst tubes and beeps, this feels easy.
And every single playbill will have your name in my bio. And maybe that will make it not hurt.
No one cleaned the blood off his face. What the fuck is that about.
Children scream too much. Another reason to not have them. They sound like fighting cats.
And the nice older paramedic, not the bitch with the gum and sunglasses, saw my heart on my sleeve, even beneath its shield and I thanked her and I meant it very much.
“He’s had a tough road.” Like potholes that swallow you up as you drive over them rough? Is that what you mean?
This is it this is it this is it.
i don’t want to tell anyone a damn thing but some days i wish i would. it would explain this sorry lump in my throat and my sorry body asleep on the couch at eight o’clock and my sorry shitty attitude when things aren’t clean. and i counted my steps, one two half, up those stairs and i’m sorry i didn’t go and tell you.
i’m sorry for a lot of things, but i don’t want you to feel sorry for me. i have enough of it on my own. and i’d give some sorry to you if i wasn’t so selfish.
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
a mess and a half
and add a quarter cup of shame
with a tablespoon of longing.
more like a liter of longing.
depends on the weather
and who’s treated you like a human today.
stir alone and rapidly,
enough to pretend you’ve made the batter smooth
but there will be chunks in there
that you’ll chew on with clenched teeth while you dream.
pour into a pan you know well.
pray you don’t overfill it
because then it’ll never let you use it again.
bake for not long enough,
alarm going off too early,
dreams jolting awake every hour,
too hot and crowded.
serve to the innocent,
the ones who don’t deserve what you’ve created for yourself
because they deserve better
than a slice of your february.
Buffy Andrews (via writingbox) —
Laura Marling, “Goodbye England (Covered in Snow)” (via asthefirstswallowssang) —