to Lot's wifedo not ever apologize for being anythingbut what you are: humanall of us beautiful tragedies, nameless beastswho would love only so much as to see throughour own destructionand what god would be foolish enough to think you to be any different?a pillar of diamonds dancing in the blazing plains,dying to leave a mark
conversation piececonversation piece “what we don’t want to sayis what keeps us awake at night”someone scribbled, between teeny starsand a pot smoking skull, on the wallof a bathroom stall -i have been meaning to tell you aboutthe ache; about how i hate postscriptums,and confined spaces and goodbyes;to talk of this urge to walk away,before the dust settles - before -the thinning ice we stand on fully melts.instead, i have been telling youthat i no longer sleep at night.Sophie, May 2014
to be a writerjump into the world headfirstcrack open your skull on the oceansink like a forgotten shipwreck in the belly of a herman whalecome up for airstumble across the words of the story-- tell it againlie to a loved one, a stranger, both of themget away with it in a stolen limousinewrite lists that you will never completehang them like goodbyes from anywhere they will stickfall in love like a wrecking ball, destroy a whole city (pretend to)have your ernest heart ridden with bulletholes, alone on a timber hillsidefind god, realize he is just as lost as the rest of usgive him a kurt laugh and look elsewheregrow an ego with hooves & horns & three eyeballsfeed it four times a day, sacrifice your childrencut yourself open and bleed, intestine and sentiment in sulfuric puddlesif not by your own hand, find someone who will do it for youdo not clean it upcreate storybook characters, or at least a story for them to be incompare everything to the biblepick your teeth with similesclo
seasons and stateson a walk to Georgia, onceCalifornia skin ripened by summer, sunsugar dreamsdripping through teeth and running down her chinshe smiled, and the world fell hard before the winter
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
letter to a little me1. these are the anniversaries that will stay with you,for better or worse:september twelfthjanuary twenty-fifthaugust fourteenthdecember twentieththings go up in december, as if the coming of a new yeargives the old one a kick in the pants.look forward to decembers.time likes to tie weights to your collarbones with silk ribbons.right now i am two years into a subdued grief,five years into a wild regret. but don't be scared;just as many feathers balance out the iron.i am three years into something trulywonderful.2. you will get better. the words on the page will eventually come a bit closer to the pictures in your head.by the way, you think in pictures--you don't see that now,but look for it. use it to your advantage.stop with the heavy moralizing. you try too hard.you will abandon false modesty and snobbishness,as you will find out that they are not attractive qualities.you will, however, trade them in for navelgazingand perhaps a bit of haughtiness and pre
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
a brief love poemyou are everything-the lilt in the voiceof the songbird,the pillow beneath my head.you are the nightsi can't sleepand when dawn comesi still smile.