Hey, you know what Hemingway said about drunk writing? Something like “Write drunk, edit sober”?
Well, I'm skipping that last part, yo.
Today I had DEEP conversations about FEAR and the FEELS with two of my best friends in the world. We talked about me, mostly, which is uncomfortable, but sometimes, it needs to happen. I am most happy when I talk about someone else, when I try to fix someone else's life. But seeing as my life was the most fucked up of the three, it was my turn.
We talked about Sweden and how scared I am. And how I “totally shouldn't be because you're awesome”. My friends are great, but their validation, though extremely nice, does nothing to inflate my ego, currently resembling the deflated plastic bags bag-ladies carry around when asking for money in the street.
|also, choosing pictures while drunk may result in lots of "pic unrelated" captions.|
I need to, you know, believe in myself and shit. Which is hard. And I don't like hard things. And thus I leave you with a stream-of-consciousness poem, written drunk (and high off Ambien) and NOT to be revised in the sober future because fuck that. Editorial responsibility is for print.
A late-night text: “Asleep?”
No verb, no subject, no me
“No”, but I was expecting more
I never catch you staring at me
and it's actually annoying when you're not touching my skin
like right now
a thousand almost-liquid fabrics: sheets, clothes, blankets
that t-shirt you forgot last night
(or maybe it was last week)
but no fingers lifting up my shirt
strategically worn so you would feel there was
nothing between us
But I know we could:
osmosis through our skin
water and perfume and the smoke of an incense stick
held by a white Buddha
|this is a schiele drawing, and the gif i made by myself. talent.|