i think about the things i could do differently to be earth-mama pretty; to be romantically moved, byronic even; to forsake the wispy beauty that comes with pronouncing "wallflower" slowly to pictures i'm not in, and participate.
but really, i'd rather just sleep.
i feel old. my fingers are brown, bitten and achy, like fox paws in a trap. maybe its all the concrete, the lack of spontaneous greenery, the ocean hidden behind apartment complexes and frothy clouds of marijuana, that make me lonely for newness and a mouth that WANTS me.
everything comes in patterns and i've never been good at matching.
i make the most glorious resolutions of identity revolution, while i twist my body on the sofa-bed around the sandman's hostility. i plan a summer life where there are books and spontaneous deep sea dives and people who can look at me and GET IT, and its not even soothing-- just stupid. i want one thing to be easy and real, but maybe i'm too young for that, or maybe too old, i don't know. most of the time i just feel like i'm a ghost haunting everyone's expectations and re-living the moment when i died, on that lawn beneath those blossoms with paint spilled beside me from the tumble of our skin and the preciousness of finding ourselves alone.
i really wish i was as empty as i feel, i'd be easier to live with.
