Crash.
loud, short
teaching/screaming/waving
lady with blue hair
Lioness.

20. ♀. Bi. Poly. Minnesota. Ramapo-for-Lifer
Occasionally #NSFW.

Credits
1 234


The crickets sound different here, different
than the background to the touches of lovers who fade
to real life and indifference as the maple leaves burn red.
They are freckles on my skin I never had,
campfire embers aglow in the dark of a room that’s too big,
a house that no longer feels like home.
Cigarettes don’t taste as good alone. Free time isn’t free
with no one to spend it on.

Give me back your jutting hips in the moonlight.
Give me back your smile in the dark.
Give me back the way your hands found me
in the middle of the night,
the way the music sounded in all the cars
while we blasted down upstate roads,
laughing.
Give me back what it means to feel alive.
On Missing People // waitforhightide

I once traced the freckles on your arms at two in the morning. I said,
You are the sky, and apologized
for covering you in black lines. You said
not be sorry. You said
that you liked it.
When you fell on your longboard and lost
half the skin on your left arm,
I could still see the constellations underneath.



Every time I said fuck you for three months, you said
We already played that game, and you
smiled.
The night you left you never said goodbye,
only looked up at me from that rock in the parking lot
where we’d spent so much time avoiding work
and other people,
and said, oh, fuck you,
and I think maybe that meant I made you feel something
other than the emptiness you try to fill.
So I said that we already played that game
and you hugged me
and as I walked away, you shouted out,
rematch, next year! and all I could think was, oh,
fuck you,
too.

Falling in Love with a Vagabond // crash

The main Ramapo summer ended today. Most counselors and campers are gone. The Girl with the Waterfall Laugh and the King of Bad Decisions are leaving tomorrow; the Man with the Ember Heart leaves Sunday morning.

I have nine more days here.

The King of Bad Decisions is currently sleeping off a particularly bad decision on a couch, and Ember is out with friends. Waterfall is sleeping. I am, for a brief moment, alone with my thoughts and the very real idea that the Lifeboat will never be all in one place ever again.

I have never learned so much from one place. I have never bonded so hard and so quickly with so many people as I have at Ramapo.

I really hope I can supervise next year, so I can spend the summer giving back to a place that has taught me so much, and inspiring a new set of staff to love their kids and themselves, and expand their minds the way The Godfather taught me. 

I am so tired. But I am so alive.

There are moments that his face lights up and you think again, as you always do when confronted with his smile, of bright golden sunlight; of midsummer breeze; of a perfect moment cast in glass, a cottonwood puff caught in resin.

Six Reasons I’m Crying After Midnight

.i.
We were thirteen and stupid and skipping class and I fell in love with you every single day. We were fourteen and your arms were cut up and you were drunk and surfing couches. We were sixteen and your hair was pink and I already knew I had lost you. Eighteen and we pretended it was okay that I got out and you hadn’t yet, like we both knew you were the one who was supposed to be growing up and out but we decided not to talk about it.

We are twenty and the numbers don’t add up anymore.

.ii.
I refuse to believe in reincarnation but I refuse to rule it out because if there is a life out there in the multiverse where we grew up and old together I want to accept it the way I’ve accepted that it’s easier to think of you like a ghost than to come to terms with the fact that I may never see you again.

I wonder if somewhere, we got out together, and we were both happy at once.

.iii.
I wore your serenity prayer around my neck until the string broke. I gave it to my brother and then took it back when he didn’t pick it up again. Sometimes he reminds me so much of you, I wonder if you and I actually related. Other times the person I see most in my memories of you is myself. There are times when I wonder how real you actually are, and if maybe you only existed when I needed someone to reflect off of.

Even broken mirrors are better than nothing.

.iv.
I think of you when I’m happy. I think of you when I’m drunk. I think of you most when I reflect on the gulf of years growing ever larger between me and you and that spring we spent telling the world to fuck itself with all the venom thirteen-year-old hearts can muster. Every time I think I’m done thinking of you, there you are, freckles and switchblade nose and crappy guitar playing in your basement.

I wonder if I’m half a ghost in your heart, too.

.v.
Your number is in my phone but I won’t call you because you won’t pick up. It’s four in the morning and I’m shouting into the void just like every time I’ve ever missed you.

It’s four in the morning and I’m thinking that maybe there are some people in this world you’re made to love and others you are made to miss.

.vi.
Happy twenty-first, big brother.

New blog post: Lessons from a Godfather

You are elbow-deep in deja vu and just writing that down drags you under some more. Black type like small cracks in cement aligns in blocks as if prophesied to be this way half a dozen times before and you’re wondering if you’re writing this all down or just scrubbing away the blank space to find the words where they always were.

You see time like a glowstick, all lit up at once, filled with bubbles and phosphorescence, and you are in three apartments, a townhouse bedroom, and a picnic table all at once. There are voices around you but you can’t place them, and you are about to get up to do something important but you can’t remember what it is. You turn to the person next to you to ask them but their face is angled away and all you can do is think of the outline of their profile in the artificial light. 

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It’s seven in the morning and the sun has probably been up for an hour. I’m sitting on my bed in my pajamas and thinking about how the people I love are leaving their friends and partners. I’m trying to catch the big finality of the end of a school year in a fishing net so that I can understand where I am in my timeline and what I’m doing next, but this transition is not mine. I am guiding people home like some benevolent spirit, cheering them on and drying their tears and wondering if I’ve transcended some boundary where every single change has to hurt.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m thinking about the world and its capacity for change. I’m thinking of every single person I’ve ever left, and how it always felt like the end of the world, and I’m reminding myself that leaving this place has been done so many times. Once, a broken kokopelli brought me through the other end. Once, there was a sad, desctructive man with a smile like coffee at midnight. Once there was a girl with princess dresses and scars. They all made sure I left home safely.

The hardest part about this time around is that the people I’m leaving don’t understand what that means, and so I’m fixing hair clips and scraped knees and trying to keep myself from thinking about how much I’m going to miss these tiny people when I go.

This is what I have right now: enough sleep, beautiful music, words that aren’t working, a partner 200 miles away, and a gaggle of school kids who have all hallowed out their own spaces in my heart. Here is what needs to be done: a room cleaned and gutted, two months of gear found and packed up, and some semblance of poetry manufactured to deal with how normal my life feels.

It’s seven in the morning on the last day in May and I’ve got enough energy in my heart to solve any problem I see. It’s seven a.m. and I miss places I haven’t left yet and people I haven;t met. It’s seven a.m. and that’s really all I know.

It’s seven a.m., and maybe that in itself is a gift.

I go to post-punk shows sans makeup, wearing tie-dye
with my huge flash and my camera and flourescent ear plugs and I
do not care what you think about me.
I have not spent seven years in mosh pits
for your judgement.
I am here for screaming
and singing
and losing my voice, for photos
no one else likes.
I don’t care.

They remind me what it’s like not to have a body
for a while.

When you catcall me on my bike, I
cannot even hear your words, only
your voice. I am not
turning my head out of interest, I
am wondering
how many of you are there?
I am looking to see
the size of your car
and I am wondering how much it might hurt
when you turn into my lane,
block my path,
and demand
my attention.
open letter to the men who shout from their car windows // waitforhightide

deliciouspineapple asked: [whispers a quiet hope for god mythos about herself]

There is a mother goddess found in the southeastern US, charming snakes and reptiles of all types. Pythons adorn her arms and lizards ride the tops of her feet from place to place. She is found most often, surprisingly, in libraries—it’s said that she has a passion for absorbing knowledge about the human world, as well as possible creation powers, though the creatures she may have created have never come out of the woodwork to proclaim themselves.

Children are more likely to summon her than adults, especially if that child is struggling, or is non-neurotypical, although she has made herself known to adults as well.

People she has appeared to claim not to remember her physical features clearly, though they all agree that they were embraced by her, and remember her hugs clearly for the rest of their lives.