secrets

a ghost watches you from the bathroom counter

watches you fill the tub 

watches you play with the buttons on your shirt

watches the water swallow you whole

'how curious', the ghost thinks

as your kneecaps, like apples,

ripen underneath the murky waves.

lucky

it's been nice.

the first hours of the morning greet with wild city lights.

my forehead is leaning against the cool glass of a taxi window.

i smile to myself and think about winter-girl, and unicorn-boy

and how they've enticed me more than anyone

simply because they never let me have them for myself.

congratulations. 

and then i think about how lucky i am

because i don't say 'i love you' to anyone before going to sleep

because there are no obligations

only art museums to visit and tea to drink. 

wake up

i have no words to write today.
hands have closed around my neck, and i haven't got a care.
i'm in a better place now.

i want to cry because of the sleepless nights and lucid dreams and cheap motels that await me.
i want to cry because i'm no longer drowning.
i want to cry of wanderlust and ecstasy and illumination.
i want to cry because of paris and evan and summer.

it's like i'm waking up from a good night's sleep.

various shades of white

i am convinced that the world around us is formed of several layers of reality.

one of them is solely built of lies.

every day we all add a brick to the wall

'dinner was delicious.'

'you look great in that dress.'

'yes, that felt good.'

'it's okay.'

'yes, i'm happy.'
'of course i love you.'

soon, the walls around myself will become a home.

it'll be the prettiest home, the bricks will be various shades of white.

see how lovely everything becomes when you coat it with lies?

it doesn't matter that who gets trapped inside

everyone outside wins, everyone outside is satisfied.

'what a lovely home you've built.'

for the birds

a few heartbeats ago, i could have never imagined being who i am today.

i was a broken little girl.

i poured salty tears into wounds that couldn't seem to heal.

it's funny how a person can grow, grow, grow.

it must be all the rain.

it has been raining every day since may turned to june.

and i can't imagine being in a better place.

dear friend, open your window and take the deepest breath

promise me that today, you are going to stop pretending to be someone you're not

instead, you are going to let your soul roam free 

'till it comes home heaving under the weight of the beautiful sights that it has seen. 

 

fourteen hours

i'm alive.
i'm breathing air.
i ride a bicycle absolutely everywhere.
every week, i get chinese takeout in a crumbling alley off somerset.
i wake on a sunday morning, i make coffee, and i'm out the door.
i'm alive. i'm alive.
in the evenings i spend time in the arboretum
where i fill my lungs with haze and close my eyes and-
i'm conscious. i'm aware. i've got both feet on the ground.

a work of art

i no longer wish to create any form of art.
not after what i saw.

why would you want to mar the beauty of your mind's own creation
by materializing it within the barriers of the 'real' world?
you must understand that you are the work of art.
the work of art is really the inside of your head.

and what kind of witchcraft is this?
what could make the human brain, so proper and structured,
explode into a million of galaxies
offering you an unobstructed view
of a parallel world, just like this one,
but amplified. perfected. uncensored.