1AM, ripped jeans, black, fast cars, organic food, a cold beer, trip hop, grey areas, stubbornness, a puddle of mud, breezy weather, warm fingers up her thighs, street lights, dark curtains, milk spilled on the kitchen floor, up-on-the-counter sex, memories, frozen yoghurt, make up kit, white shirts, dawn, warmth, tenderness, silver lightning, eyes wide open,
a strange mixture of elements that work together against all odds,
perfection.
For a hot mess.
*
Forget your head for a second. Forget your heart. Forget your world. Make magic with me. Make yourself brand new but don’t let go of my hand, I know the secret words of spells and can whisper them to you if only you forget the place, the time, the definitions. I can make you disappear. You can make me crazier than I look. I am under no obligation to make sense to you, but I can make wild art to you in your red car all summer long.
*
I’m a visual creature, always looking for more mental breathing room.
Declutter.
I want you to stay.
*
In lazy ocean waves in the heat of summer and good vibes and wine and texts and car rides and films and spontaneity and chances and helping hands and kisses and missed calls and expectations and food orders and trips and night that never end; so much love I’m being sent and I don’t know how to honour it.
A bunch of troubled people who still give the best they can, a moment so intense it feels eternal, hopes lost and roundabouts and big decisions and moving boxes and houses and outcomes and life trajectories, like a girl version of Mr Nobody choosing possibility over lost possibility and asking herself what-if questions twenty four seven.
*
Neon lights and glasses of wine, noises and words and Garbage’s Run Baby Run, his hands, a whisper, body heat and kisses I never knew before tonight. Triviality and getting lost and living in the moment, the present is all that matters, always paddle your own canoe, sharp teeth and laughing sounds and special effects and too much to drink. Night after night and day after day until all the joy leaks out of my mind and I’m left alone with a cold Corona on a windy summer evening. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not close to anything. I’m floating, but I’m not airy and light and easy like a fucking Sunday morning. I’m a flock of questions marks flying back and forth and eventually in circles.
The writing on the wall is in ten-foot fluorescent orange letters. Get out.
Get out.
Get the fuck out of here.
Get out of my head.
Get out of me.
*
❝ Talk to me like I’m the night.
Everything you say will just be
swallowed up and I’m the only one
that will know, okay?
Tell me things only exhaustion
could coax out of you.
*
I don’t want to be the girl of your dreams. I want to be the girl of my dreams.
*
‘Stay for the good seconds,’ I tell myself and bite my lips and look outside, trying my hardest to take a trip outside my personal bubble and respect your point of view but the more I understand it the less I love you, and the more I want to cry for being so weak and you being so self reliant. I’m either alone or in great company but you are a great company and yet I’m always alone. Here, have my heart. Fuck you for having my heart.
The future is uncertain as it is and I want him to hold my hand, not because I can’t walk alone without him but because I’m giving him too much of me if I am with him.
*
❝ How odd, I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
Filed under: Stories 
