6/30/12

26 days. My life fits in six plastic tubs. Books line the bottom, clothes I never wear (and probably shouldn't own) pad the tops. Things I want aren't the same as what I need.

6/29/12

The sink is metal, that didn't seem like a problem 'til later. A knife is left, skin is split and the metal becomes red. Responsibility, it's something that should keep your knives from being blade up.

6/28/12

Sweatshirts don't belong in this weather. Sweat is gathering and running from my upper lip. My face's tinge is getting deeper and deeper until my cheeks are warm and reddened. My paper is nothing but a weak fan and my clothes are oppressive, confining. Here you are covered in wool and fleece and I hurt just watching you. Are you cold? Is it because there's no meat on your bones?

6/27/12

Things I've Found

An anorexic version of my sister. Strange to see such a similar face peeking out from a wasted body, sack of bones held together by skin and luck. The gaunt cheeks and ratty hair aren't hers.

6/26/12

More Things I've Lost

My childhood love of bugs and the creepy crawlies. Somewhere along the road to adulthood caterpillars stopped being fun to pet and the fuzz became ominous. Rollie pollies stopped being mini armadillos and became things to step around. Worms stopped being slimy friends and became slimy holders of guts.

Spiders have always been evil.

6/25/12

Things I've Lost

My faith. Though does it count as lost if I've never really had it? It was given to me by my parents, but I never really owned it. Pretty stories, ugly myths.

It must be lonely, people say, living this way. Not at all, it's a comforting hug for certainty and mystery, of science and beauty. I don't know, and you don't either.

We are all made of the universe itself. Dust from exploded stars make up the dust of our bones. We are of galaxies and suns and the universe. Stardust people, how can that not be beautiful? We're small, but part of something oh so big.

6/24/12

Tension is gone, packed in her bags. Oxygen isn't full of sulfur, breathing doesn't hurt the chest. Freedom, happiness, alone.

But...I always assumed that when the zombie come, they'll eat her first...

6/23/12

What are you if you walk through walls? What if you walk through Walla Walla?

6/22/12

I have 37 copies of the Harry Potter books. The American and British hardcovers, an American set for saving, most of the American and British deluxe/special editions, and some of the British adult editions. Why? Couldn't tell you. Because I'm a fan? They're pretty? They exist so I need them?

I want to know more. I want the stories to get into my head.

6/21/12

If I walk into a bookstore, I'm coming out with at least one book. It's unavoidable. It's not as deadly an addiction as some, but just as expensive. From leather bound editions with gold or silver lined pages to crappy, waterstained copies that in a previous life were used as coasters, I need to have them. The discovery of two dollar books at thriftbooks and abebooks.com has been my bank account's downfall.

6/20/12

We are eccentric oddities here. We are all colored bright. The town has white haired lovers, the lovers have wills of iron. They're not really seeing us. No one really sees us, not the elders, the mayor, or neighbors. We wish to banish the seagulls by the marina, we run for shelter when they fly over the walkway.

SUMMER QUARTER 6/19/12

When I first stepped onto a boat, I was sure clumsy me would fall. Maybe my legs are secretly for the sea because I stumble on land and trip over nothing but on the water I traipse around like a bizarre ballerina in sweat pants and Converse.