"If I spit on you, will you let me go?"

Tonight, I kept both my make-up and headband on hoping you'd notice. Yours are the only stares that will ever count. Crooked steps, stained clothes, and red eyes are warning signs for the gut, but as always, I remain victimless.
Tonight I don't feel creative but I'll describe through selection.
 Dignity is the spine that holds an arm-crossed walk  back to the car, in the cold, at 3AM, on quiet streets. But my head was boiling dramatically from the greatest and most (in)appropriate war with fear. I could never decide which side to be on. Passion makes the biggest fool of me by trying to hold you, how terrible is the idea that my kind of passion is only for the weak and given to the sane. I'm not ashamed of self-inflicted wounds. The kinds that are painfully ripping down the solid lines that make up you and me. The lines that are built with the positivty of 3 years and that make me ridiculous to be introduced to wild Persistence. The drive back is really what is peeling all the sweetness of fruit to the dullest and harmful core which hurts me to reach. I might've placed my hand on the canvas bag about 5 times to see if it would vibrate. Stupid Hope. What I told you about D was true but there wasn't a way to prove it. And now after 10 hours of work, I hate to be alone without you or your warmth. But phrases and words like the title of this post are like blows that awaken this unexplainable surface that I know could be kept gentle and beautiful. The bad part is that I know I'm crazy. Love dominated me.

She's my narcotic lollipop

Weekend souvenirs: two cigarettes, two jobs, no wine opener, bad health, $350 waste estimate, tired eyes, matching costumes, early departures, possible visa extension, tongue burn, clean bed sheets and dirty sinks, even shorter hair, pet hatred, impatience, the most beautiful boy

Porceline update

50's & 60's Vintage collars have been listed in the shop! Take a peeksie here.

He ro in

I found this abandoned postcard that was unreasonably incomplete, and I think it's only because loaded words without literal expression did nothing for two people. I used to call it a "practice of honesty" because my gift of words to you was somehow understood but I knew that we were just dancing  afraid to make the boldest swinging of steps that would proceed into emotional turmoil. There's a pattern that never came and went. It remained and I have not the slightest idea why. Within me it's been soundless, but I now have a vicious hunger for a nameless need. You have no idea how I carried them inside me, like a true disease that managed to make its chioces for me, other than my voluntary self. 

The more soothed I am inside your walls, I forget about my self existing outside and becoming a favored vision that isn't to be determined by anyone. My waves keep swinging and swinging beneath your light and this is also why self neglection as a subject has been spurring and gotten me sick. It's the sensation of walking the world next to someone so early. I suppose his mind is some sort of sanctuary where my flaws and precise traces of motion dissolve and it's really just me, little-eyed staring into my own space. He obeys his own conscious and unfortunately his products are what got me whistling the same tune. I've been taught a lot of what's made me, a lot of what embodies the good and loving person. But I've left out what's been needed the most from such a careless, fearful creature, which is largest, the monumental establishment of identity. It involves all the craftsmanship taken from anything and I'd like to come back with a straighter back and nicer presence.  

I'm never going to direct my guilty sight to someone for scraps representing traits.

Anna Karina

"Moons were meant to be admired"

A lonesome walk plaid-skirted and briskly-paced faltered my energy and concluded my self sitting amidst figures of people walking their dogs up and down that sidewalk in front of me.

A little girl being attended by her mom and dad. Was that what I was like when I was her age?

I am not sure what inspired a policeman to roll his wheels past all that concrete to simply ask if I was fine, his blue eyes so wide and true, I thought about having a conversation with him but I thought I'd interrupt his monitering.

Perhaps it was goodwill. Maybe he just got bored of being there. Then he told me. Flustered. Apparently that's what I seemed, making my way across those people having a good time on that darn big patch of grass.

Just earlier C gently pressed his hands on my forehead and reminded I needed a change of expression. A reminder, because each damn heavy step I made walking to make my mother's errand had me harshly vaulting the space that I feel has been running empty. I don't usually know where I'm going, but for once I did and I felt angry that it wasn't for anything important. It suddenly felt like all my work was just made up of careless harvesting that wasn't growing a single damn thing. What the hell was I doing? What have I? I feel sorry for ever trying to hold the moon so thoughtlessly and hopelessly that I forgot about what it truly was.

 If it really does look over me and provide for me every night the way it has, not skipping a single night when I fix my sight to it, it's not bad. Really, not bad after all. I halt my stream of fears when I rotate ideas about distance. Shuddering about its existence. I don't want it to fail me. But we all just want. All the time.

 I stole two books today from 5th Avenue, then I saw men holding hands across a window dividing them from me.

To C: I'll reach nights where I won't have to look at your sky with your enormity and assurance wrapping its arms around me.

the little sailor

I've been taking my sedatives to recuperate from the continuous anguish I felt this morning. My jaw is still swollen but I feel less of a mess. Because I still need to spend more time at home, I decided that this is would be my first post showcasing two relatively new purchases that were made -- both vintage mini dresses with collars. These photos would be of me wearing them instead if I looked the way I normally do, but this'll do.

Sometimes, I honestly feel like too much of a girly girl. I am guilty of dressing too much like an overgrown little girl, but I tend to level it off with something even sweeter beneath those short little dresses.

The left nautical dress, I'm debating to put up in my Etsy shop. It's much too short for my frame (30.5" total length) which makes it virtually necessary to wear a slip beneath. Not too sure that'll be possible considering how fitted it is, and how I'll be feeling  like I'm in an oven the whole time. Oh, the things we sacrifice just to look a little cute.

The right I absolutely adore. Black velvet Wednesday Adams goodness. Can't wait to wear during the colder months with tights.

basal demands

Bad postured on a nearly disfunctional wooden seat needing a leg change. Weak limbs, terribly swollen jaw, oily hair, and Morals by iceage on replay in the background 'cause the lyrics make me feel like I want the tips of my fingers to melt into a scurrying of brilliance to match the brilliance of the song. If only.

I thought about how I wish I could have seen them when they were here in March.

My thoughts then transitioned into more analytical realms, remembering that clear night when J spilled to me one of the most confident, yet hurtful statements which I deem too personal to ever share again. Due to the fact that my reasons are disclosed, hopefully this serves as a small hint to what I'm trying to become.

 I've been wearing the same black floral dress for the past two days. She was in a tasteless outfit when I saw her that day, and I discretely told her that she really isn't all that bad. For a moment I wanted to apologize for all the secret hatred I had snaking in me. That I kept folding and unfolding with a fear of choosing a side on either of the divide because I thought I'd be wrong anyway. I saw her, and when I did, I felt the same. She looked at me with a kind of look that told me I deserved more. But sometimes, when J looks at me in the eyes, I'm more than ready to pull that thread that was knotted between the two to have him closer and just shed fear.

Dear J, I want to ask you why.

Half the time

I doubt they get through to anyone.

Voilà, ma petite Amélie, vous n'avez pas des os en verre. Vous pouvez vous cogner à la vie. Si vous laissez passer cette chance, alors avec le temps, c'est votre cœur qui va devenir aussi sec et cassant que mon squelette. Alors, allez y, nom d'un chien!

Can't stop listening to you.

We like your lips

I never draw boys.

I somehow feel like I should share something about how this painting became both beautiful but disappointing. I'll just leave it here instead.

I want to start drawing again.

Traced

This is a post where I'll diffuse my words to however way the screen decides to project them and I won't even think twice about what I'm writing or the way I do.
All my writings are the same. And just like all other posts, let me make a short, sweet statement. One which anyone reading and anyone who knows me personally might (but hopefully not) link a connection to it: I don't like to wait.

I feel guilty for making that sort of declaration because I let it happen all the time. From a person waiting in their car for me to a fuller spectrum where lights have not yet wrapped around the spaces of my future.
I also like to bring things to a very unwarning halt. Like this blog for example. Tons of ideas, tons of plans simply shoved under a pile of life. Okay, maybe I lied. Before the beginning of that last sentence I was about to type something completely different. But trust me, it's information that I'd rather not unveil just yet.

Seeing you off the edges has always made me want to jump. There have been quite a few people in my life that have bestowed me with the impulse to aggressively swing myself to things I've not yet done. For the past four years, it's only been a certain two that I sadly recall the most effective and impactful individuals, and one  whom has unconditionally held my hand the whole time.

How challenging it is to be lonesome. Really. Though part of me preaches the fact that everyone really has to go through it though no one wants to admit that it's going to be their last time wounded by that type of feeling. One of the people that has given me the desire to just push myself doesn't convey such a strong presence anymore, but this person bruised me with a stupid juvenile longing for anti perpetualism and nourished me with growth.

The second (and say, the most influential), spilled on me with all sugar. At this point I keep reading the very first sentence of this post with the natural intention of correcting anything that sounds awkward or to simply sail the groove of the whole post but I'm really trying to stop myself from doing so. Anyway, as I was saying, sugar. Right. It was just a couple of days ago that I was traversing the text-raped, incoherent posts that made up my private teenage tumblr when I happily read a pleasant post that I had written about you. 11: 13. You probably didn't catch it. I wonder why I always do. And it's so bizarre because I was just listening to such a lovely prelude to time feelers just now (that was really shaping the flow of this paragraph) and I just clicked to re-play it because it's too nice to not do so. Ah! Does the fact that I keep deviating from my initial direction reflect my current giddiness? probably not. I'll shut up now. When I read this post, it instantly enlivened every time through a physical manifestation of a smile. And maybe it's too strange to speak of the spirit because I've always found it rather pretentious to do that but, I just got this rush where I know my spirit has dropped a massive layer of approval on all things lately and I feel happier.

Here we go again. As I reach the end of my usual self-incitements, here comes the ending thought. The "big" idea.The clarification. The finality. All I'm trying to say is that anything that's thrown over to me I know that it was because that's the only way it could be. I'm happy with what and who I have and my feelings won't ever regress to what I currently am surrounded with. I can't say that dodges won't be made but I can always remember what I had.

Eh, that was probably confusing.

Oh well.

*edit: It's not important and no one cares but only a single error was corrected in the typing of this post and I have yet to read it in its full. I also sent this text to someone who I'm waiting for them to start reading before I do.

Sweet thing

Here I am criss-cross-legged and all. Bending ideas to wait and see if they're played out precisely the way you've taught me. I know, I should send you a message.  Without your acknowledgement of a withered voice? No, I can't. I just can't. But I'm spanning through my choices, and recall that this is the best I've had. My hand's on my face. I'm always covering my face in some way and all I can re-call is being the exact same way aged 17.
It was then when I couldn't handle my desires and kept trying to fit it all in shapes that looked suiting. Without taking another glance, I'd tug and tug and you always knew that I ignored the disproportionate sight because I needed to let myself grow and god damn why does it feel like everything is coming back to me slowly yet all at once?

Weightless. Everything is careful. It's rare to detect that scent that only makes me see your satisfying remarks. I'd walk and talk without thinking twice because no matter what, these dry, tired eyes and somehow dubbed "charms" were beyond you. Ache and inquisitiveness about how close you can get to a human being. Where have I been? Past midnight, sneaking into my messy bedroom with dim lights barely flooding its corners. Quietly tip-toeing to not wake him up, to discover my own dark human figure in my large bathroom mirror. I consider my reflection but I can't ever remember it. It happens quite often, actually. I think people should look at themselves more. Really stare, if possible, but without thought. I believe there to be something empowering about just really looking and not registering these rough string of events that makes one feel restless or lonesome.

Last night I decided to give up. I didn't want to fight with myself. To think that there is nobody else that is going to be me. But if there is nobody else for me, I really don't want anyone else.

So to you, I do rest my case. And among my constructed traits is built a bridge for you to cross. Where beneath, I dissolve my flaws. And maybe I won't remember what it was like to feel that way again,

My sweet thing.

Bleed like me

You can add up all my cards to figure me out. You, more than anyone know my greatest fears. I miss these days so much.