People who complain about being bored should answer their phones when I call and answer my texts when I message. If you have plans and answer, we're seriously a hundred percent fine; if you're that guy who masturbates to the sound of a ringing phone, you're a sick fuck and I'm not calling you anymore.
A whole bunch of people canceled on the mini-party I had planned for my cousin. A whole bunch, for no good reason. I'm upset about that. If they had told me they had stuff to do, fine. It's okay. I don't mind you having a life.
But still... you put my family through that rejection. That is not deserving of loyalty; if you say I'd owe it still, then what sort of loyalty do you think you are entitled to?
Got my hair cut today, and more of the dye washed from it. The woman (Karianne) insisted on highlights after; since the cut was a gift anyway, I accepted--and it looks... warm. I feel pretty; but I've lost this wild mane of mine. I miss it, I keep reaching for hair that isn't there. I'll grow it out again; I want my mane back.... but it's a pretty color. I'm keeping this color.
I feel pretty. I'm not used to feeling... pretty.
Katie, you left those mirrored sunglasses at my house for our disappointing-on-my-end socialization. I'll give them to you next I see you since you didn't come back tonight.
Last night, Finley stayed over. He held me in our bed and sighed into my mane (he hasn't seen the new cut yet) and said, "I love you, Payton."
Somehow even those simple words mean something to me. In ways I can't understand. In ways I fear understanding.
My heart wants to sing tonight. It wants to sing to the world like it used to, and I won't let it... not when there's a giant calender hanging over my head. Not when I want to kill people from the nervous anger I'm soaking up from these seniors everywhere and there's thunder shaking my house. So here's a different song, one of the idea from Spoon River Anthology. Like, not my life, but someone's life.... maybe I'll do more of these soon.
Last night, I dreamt of you.
Your wilting life respired in my arms:
while my hands knew your decadent warmth;
you whispered my name.
I wanted that name to be mine.
More than anything else, my fingers are hungry for our forbidden romance;
the nuances of simple speech, revealed
I want to taste the glimmer of our moon upon your lips.
I want to unravel the knowings from Time.
Be in my heart, beneath my hands
let our dreams take us to far away lands.
I am not a fairy tale, and you are not forever
but we are imperfection at its finest
and our mediocrity will taste of mortal passion
when my lips hunger for a taste of our moon.
Taste me;
I am the shadows of the sun
the water beneath the ice,
the brimstone in the fire:
For me to endure,
you must whisper my name...
Taste me, taste me,
touch me...
trust me.
No comments:
Post a Comment