it isn’t even real.
Peppermint tea pricks my tongue.
Tonight’s fog wraps me up like a down comforter,
but doesn’t keep me warm; that’s what the tea is for.
The man on the corner is perched on his porch
again. Sitting, waiting, wishing. Or maybe he’s not.
Maybe he stares into the darkness
scared that aliens are going to assault our street,
and suck his brains through his nostrils.
Or maybe he doesn’t.
He coughs like he’s inhaled death,
his attempts at expulsion sound like his throat
is made of cracked concrete at noon in Phoenix, Arizona.
I want to tell him, “The moon doesn’t give a fuck about you.”
But he knows that.
that some people in the university greek system are intelligent, thoughtful human beings. But for this theory to be true, you guys really gotta stop using the words “big” and “little” to refer to people. you look dumb and it makes me want to hit you.
The sun shone through the bed sheet that hung haphazardly over the window. Its reddish tint fell upon the bed onto the four of us in a cluster of laughter. It is mornings like that one that continues to make me feel human, that continues to wrench me out of the ungrateful, millennial generation mindset and throws me back into reality. Those few and fleeting moments that are just so good that you replay them endlessly, and can’t help but feel the creases of your lips curl upwards into a smile. Who knows what we were laughing about, but the sensation of the sun’s heat on my legs as they were dangled over my best friend’s lap will forever be engrained in my memory, the feeling of warmth. You need those memories; you need to keep them locked away in the kitchen cupboard, saved for later when the cookie jar is empty. Saved for when the supermarket runs out of cookies and all they have stocked on the shelves are canned sardines.
everything is blue.
Upside down in each pack
But I hate that people notice
When you gain three pounds,
But not when you buy a new hat.
I’ve been told that the way I sleep
With one leg draped over
The person lying next to me
But I think it’s annoying
When people tell me
I look pretty,
But only when I paint my face.
I’ve heard that old men
Like to touch the girls who work late at bars,
But I want to know
Why they never kiss the women they married
fourty-two years ago.
I’ve noticed that mothers teach their daughters
That it’s rude to refuse a hug
From an uncle they’ve met three times,
But forget to teach them
That they aren’t obliged to kiss
The boy who paid for dinner."
— (via selfiishmachine)