apricot milk

. . . like apples of gold in pictures of silver — memory, etc.

running or something.

lately, i’ve been trying to go on more evening runs. i bought black and pink nikes that fit just snugly, and i always wear the same striped top and blue shorts. although i sometimes i feel my skin is reflective enough when passing car headlights shine on my legs. mostly, i prefer to be alone with the wind and nothing but roughly 30 minute route on my mind. there’s nothing else but the road in front of me–is that a cat? there’s those people with their dogs again. i like it because hardly anyone is out. usually the train rumbles, and i can spy a small airplane against the purple sky.

i guess the reason i started running is because i want to feel better. maybe just better about the things i can do–if i can add this one thing into my life that makes me get up and move, than that will be an accomplishment. it’s great to get in shape and become a little stronger, but i guess the other reason, the biggest one is for my mental health. i mean, running won’t permanently solve anything, but it makes me feel this good collapsing kind of soreness afterward. and you can get into this kind of rhythm. my cousin taught me that sprinting is not what you do, but act like you’re almost walk-bouncing. and you can go and go without stopping–listen to your body and its balances. it forces you to know your self, the way you move and what hurts. then when you get home, you can breathe, drink a giant glass of water, strip the grossness from your skin into a softer t-shirt. maybe sleep more deeply, which i have always struggled with in life.

i would only recommend it to someone if they think it might make them happy. sometimes i look at the hot girls running in the sunshine with their goldybrown tans and i’m just–that’s not me. i’m a nearly transparent creature of the night. that could be you and there’s nothing wrong with being that. my cousins who did cross-country until their legs became a stress-fractured mess used to tell me “your life could have been so different!” if i had just done track in high school when the coach noticed how fast i could sprint. but you know what, i’m alright with my choice. it’s better to make that choice to move when the time is right.

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rabbit & tiger

so, now it’s a new game. although i told you today that i hate to call it a game. the rules are different for everyone, you said. you think you aren’t a baby with baby skin. but something tells me we are both little ones.

we’ve known each other for three months and yet it’s been an eternity since. i think i’ve floated in the rain for so long, things are coming to a close & opening at the same time. i will have my master’s degree by the end of the summer; who knows where we will be by then.

this weather makes us want things, and makes bones feel like winter. i am achy and cry more often. does this mean age? being a dropped old peach? what happened to that hot stroke of sunshine. and i usually love the rain. and question silently, loudly, about the path i should be taking in three months. world travel? nine to five hours per day? long nights stretched out on office building roofs because, i’ve always wanted to?

whatever, no matter where i go, i can’t escape the wail of the train.

mother you warned me of men’s tongues slick and pink bright with potential
too soon – i was too young –
not nearly so easy and easily
won by my own thoughts.

promise i’m still here

i am still around and still want to write. all the time. but no energy. i will stick to telling you my dreams, if i sleep long enough to have any. x

companions

i suppose i would still like to be a part of your life, and that could be pathetic, but i don’t think it is. it means i’d like to move further away from this attachment, to accept whatever it was that happened and then didn’t.

right now, my roommate is making the most delicious dinner. she made slits into a long loaf of bread for melted cheese, she strained the pasta. the smell is music to my nose. all day i slept and drank tea, hot chocolate, thought about getting into a csa program for delivered weekly vegetables. i’ve been so tired lately but everything sounds good and full of this thing i need.

excerpts from letting yourself feel at 12AM:

honestly, i want to forget about you, or, how you made me feel all those sweet cold winters ago. i was a bruised plum under your shoe. you didn’t know at all. i want your soft smile. i want that mouth curve under my tongue. some times, i feel like i might start laughing. or running in the rain. burning off whatever this ball of hotness is in my gut. this knowing, this need. [–] i want to fall into salt water. make my skin clean and cold like marble. clear and perfect.

this is not a rant.

you most likely wouldn’t know it. sometimes, i do get angry. i do, really. angry at little things that wouldn’t or shouldn’t matter to other people. like angry at a dream i had last night about unclogging a toilet, and the stuff just kept bubbling up. that was the entirety of it. like my inability to express my anger in written words. or just feelings. words don’t do well enough. they are never enough, and that makes me angry. i get angry at noise. at the presence of others around me. at the fact that my family expects and knows me to be a-sweet-little-thing. at myself, when i change according to the people i am around. to suit them in the moment, instead of suiting my voice. but i don’t know what my true voice is. but i do, and it’s so quiet, no one will listen. people don’t like to listen up. so i have to speak up, force myself out of some made-up shell while wearing a funny mask and i don’t like that. it hurts my body in a way–saps my bones dry. and so i get angry about needing space. like it is wrong and i should feel guilty. but that is when i am me and i can’t help it. i’m selfish and sometimes i even wish everyone could do as i say and as i want; i wish this world conformed to my desires because i am needy, without knowing what exactly i need. there is anger, too, at time passing. yet i keep the broken clock on the wall because the second-hand soothes me. i keep reading about the world and how many many things show the opposite of a place where people help others and humanity is some kind of woven plane that listens, and gives their body a chance to be still. i keep my hands in my lap and my head down, keep the door closed. but in the closeness, don’t your shoulders feel less tight, and your lungs easier?

if i don’t get over you,
i’ll always be twenty-two.

well.

i’ve always known i write like my friends or other works i’ve been reading. it’s hard to find your own voice while everyone else is talking so loudly. that’s really no excuse of course, but still.

being a writer is interesting that way. and certain influences being the thing of the times. just look at c.s. lewis and tolkien. no, they are certainly not the same, but they drew ideas from each other. connections, yep. they’re important and they can really stretch you and how you create your own pieces. it’s easy to feel guilty about that too, when you kinda get into a groove of imitation. finding that balance between other voices and your own can potentially be the hardest thing a writer does, i imagine.

i’m glad i haven’t dated anyone so accusatory (yet), but know that it may happen sometime. this is a very well written post about how people have a hard time understanding the privacy of sexual life and their own entitlement.

The Ellipses Project

By Kathleen

dsb

I am not your “pet peeve.”

It’s ten minutes into a conversation and he says it: “It’s a pet peeve of mine…I feel like a lot of girls who say it, aren’t.”

He’s referring to the fact that I chose “bisexual” from the little drop-down menu. (A term that, as it is, feels like I’m trying to wrestle into a shirt but it’s too tight at the neck, and I can’t tell the arm- from the head-holes.)

Okay, I’ll read between the lines here.

You think we’re doing it for show, for “attention,” to look ~sexually available~, to turn you on. There’s an undertone of something I don’t want to touch, something that says get out now, girl–a guy who professes interest in sex on a first date takes issue with the idea (based on gross false assumption) of an actively sexual lady.

Dear straight boys:…

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