A Day in The Life

I woke up this morning next to him, the sun just starting to filter into his room. His back was towards me, my body pressed, and slightly stuck to his skin from the humidity. I smiled to myself as my left hand began to trace the light house on his back.

An art piece that wasn’t finished, just an outline with visible broken lines and novice shading. He told me once,

“People place too much importance on tattoos. I just go for it, and don’t look back”.

I’ve always envied his free spirited, carelessness. His piercings, gauges, body mods, and works of art. Some in progress, some complete. . Beautiful in their own imperfections of his passions.

The Joker. Batman. Scenes from The Nightmare Before Christmas. A giant eagle grasping a pot leaf and a bottle of bourbon spread across his chest. And of course, the unfinished light house.

I slept the majority of the day, attempting to evade the ever growing list of responsibilities. “Adulting”, my best friend would call it. I think I am a professional procrastinator, but without the typical underlying stress.

Now, I’m three lines deep – motivated to write, chain smoking, while sweat beads on my skin. I love this porch. . . I can feel my heart beat ever so faintly increasing as it starts to kick in. The mania has me thinking about that light house, tempted to throw on some clothes and go. Maybe get an imperfect portrayal of one of my passions branded on my skin.


February 6th, 2016

I like the challenge. I want to figure him out and I can’t. Maybe it’s the mystery, maybe it’s the need for validation.
Perhaps in some fucked up way it’s revengeful?
Never before have I been so lost in my own convictions.

Cont. .

Two can play at this game
I get the right to privacy. So sure, have your right to keep presents, or be giving money to so and so that you don’t want your significant other to know about or porn. Or whatever

But there is no communication with someone else in which that relationship needs to be private from someone who you have made a vow with.


May 4th, 2014

Maybe I am blowing this out of proportion but I just feel like it’s amazing to me that you are more concerned with getting drunk/going out than actually spending 5 minutes to make sure I’m ok. Like holy shit, don’t pretend like you care, if you don’t. Not to mention, will any of those people take time and money out of their lives to visit you in jail? Then why the fuck is it so important to blow off the one person who would see you, for the sake of a few hours of drunkeness with people who in reality won’t come through in the long run. Makes me feel shitty, and just reinforces my security in the fact that I’m glad I’m not still with you


Assortment of Poetry

I went digging in my attic today specifically looking for all my old diaries and journals. I found two huge boxes filled with pieces of my past. I’ll admit, it bothers me that I can’t remember any of it. The pictures, the names, the memories, the art…none of it. The following is a collection of what I believe to be poetry that I wrote between the ages of 10 and 16. Also – as with all my posts, I do not edit anything. I replicate exactly how I wrote it so many years ago.

Let’s get this over with,
kiss my ass,
we’re through,
all I am to you,
is toxic gas,
slowly killing you,


Pointless are the days,
where I was innocent,
I’m a slut now,
at least I feel I am.

You love me…
I still wonder how.


No one can handle me,
they’ve all tried,
I’ve seen them stumble.

Get up!
Last one died.

Don’t let it happen to you,
please, I beg…
I care enough for you


Leave me here,
so I can watch,
men come and go,
to and fro.

Hiding from the fear – your voice so near…
My heart.


Tears are shed,
from what was said,
as the minutes filled with sorrow

You held me tight,
that special night,
and told me of the ‘morrow

It was good-bye,
for he and I,
I knew he had to go

He moved away,
and still today,
Oh, I love him so

I married myself today


to wake up with myself each morning,
to know I am always here,
I am friend and foe to my own existence,
to be rid of myself,
would be to divorce

Push me out of my nest, my dear
I must struggle, and fly on my own
these chains are holding me so tightly, my dear
I must dance and twirl alone

You say you want the best for me
And I know that must be true
Thank you for everything you’ve done for me
Yes, I love you too



January 27th, 2015

I just feel like we are on two different planets. In my world, I am attempting to challenge myself with new things while maintaining my academic performance. I’m learning to manage people, overcome my weaknesses, assess others motivations and skills, and do my best to serve a greater cause.

Then we get on the phone and I’m the one trying to find questions to ask you about your day.

Food, ears, court.

Sometimes I wish you would ask me about what I’m doing, and how I am handling all these new responsibilities. Sometimes I wish you were genuinely curious about how my mind works, and would give me support and feedback. Instead I feel your questions are often motivated by a different agenda: appeasing your insecurities and looking for faults.

But sometimes… I’m glad you don’t bother asking, because I know I wouldn’t like your reaction anyways. So, it’ll just have to stick to me struggling to find ways to connect.

Food, ears, court.

Just two completely different worlds.