He loved me. He was a complex person with layers of percolating emotions, some of them spiritual, some tortured in a more secular way, and he burned for me. This complicated flame of being was mine.

Miranda July

edible arrangements

my parents gave me an edible arrangement
the year after i decided that i didn’t want to live—
a sort of metaphor—“live is fruitful and shit” and
i swallowed each swollen strawberry and
i pretended that i wasn’t in love with a boy that
i was probably in love with—eyes and gelled hair
and a potato sack bag from somewhere in tuscany—
slivers of your heart, rinds made into pulpy juice,
you destroyed me with your ambiguous efforts—
simultaneously distancing yourself while you sucked
my cock and fingered my eyelids—i go blind every
three weeks now and i laugh each time because
there’s an afterimage of your yellowing teeth—
cigarettes and amphetamines, caffeine and me—
my parents gave me an edible arrangement 
the year after i decided that i didn’t want to live—
it was easier than putting air in the tires of my bike.

yo. want to go on a date.

the five senses

vanilla extract,
twenty minutes of your time,
whatever it takes. 

Happy Wednesday. My heart doesn’t feel so heavy today. 


they wave their flashlights
while they search the depths for you—
but i don’t know why

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