what is it about nights that are blood?
colors that wont fade and emotions that flood
my heart in rivulets
of silver?

i allow whispers of skin to define an already ephemeral evening.

how do i reconcile the enigma and loss of icecaps? the blueness speckled in spiderwebs of sea foam. i miss solitude and pregnant gazes. i miss soft spoken and stifled hunger, restrained passion in quietude. i miss the breath away from you, concentrated heat and desire and questionable fulfillment. and i wonder how i will return, embracing glaciers and nuzzled in your chin, a world away from anything i've ever known?

(i am angry with myself)

She distracted herself with daydreams of travels, of crumbling noble histories, of good cheap wine, cramped hostels and dirty cobbled streets, of 13th century monasteries in Tuscany, gawdy street performers and large painted red mouths. She imagined the surrealism of Spain, Dali's birthplace, Picasso's hometown; she dreamed of art in every whisper and aroma. These fantasies prevented her from remembering the only boy who had given her the only kind of love she wanted to believe in, and she had asked him to leave because she did not know how to receive it.

Green has replaced the color blue in her visions. She did not know how to tell her new lover this. She did not know how to do a lot of things at the time.

(i am angry with myself)

i am thinking of african revolution songs in swahili. chechera uneva kuseca, kumenya gondo

the melancholy has dulled, caramelized like boiled sugar crusted in the bottom of a pan.

sometimes i smoke to feel the tendrils of smoke lining my throat, stifling the screams in the back of my mouth. sometimes i prefer a psychological tangle of flesh. sometimes adults have thoroughly fooled us into thinking things are important. sometimes it hurts, loving like mad and writing about the pain.
he asked, "so tell me. how does it feel to be so beautiful?" and she will always wish to have answered, "i don't think about it much. i find it's only an accessory to my intelligence." but instead she had replied, "...i don't know?" And he looked at her in a way that revealed all the other things people assumed about her because she never knew how to say the right things at the right time.

(i am angry with myself)

because my head is bending distractedly
because i think of the warmest clearest ocean waters off the coast of mozambique and my heart aches to be there
because i wait for others to offer more while i concentrate to keep my own desire from escaping ripe lips
because with all the poetry i read and write, all it really takes is for someone to say, "if i could i wouldn't ever let you go."
because i know this completely contradicts who i am.
because i want my mother back
because i never really knew my father
because i don't believe i'm as strong as people think
because when people hold me, it only makes it worse
because i don't know what "it" is
because in the end, they all walk away
because in the end, so do i.

"im the breathless woman/the hurried woman/im the girl with unquenchable thirst."