Love, your old feral beauty (January 17, apparently)

Girl right now, we are sitting in exact opposition to four-squared walls. I want you to seam-rip you out of your chambray, bottom to top, with the exactitude of a tailor and the trembling quick of an opening scene. Let me suck off your sick polish and stop combing your hair, we'll comma just be space a revision of the rules they set up to make these things more difficult.

I have the world through Venetian blinds and life under beveled glass, and you have the purest hair or the shyest looks. I miss having something up my sleeve for after-school or across the hall, and if you can't be anything then please please oh please you can. It is the shortest trip, I am the only girl, we will the most inseparable broken pieces.

I'm trying harder because I know you're not reading yet. (Hello, beautiful, I hope you know me sooner.) What I'm trying to say: I can't begin to understand why I'm here, except to tell you that this girl knew something, that this girl had the words, had the shoes, had something that got left behind. I'm telling myself every day, but I can't begin to see what it isn't anymore.

What's life like off the clock? Tick-ticking away in blinking ["trials of patience and the pure at heart"? I never finished the sentence, which is why I never published the post. But January is a great month for writing.] The real girl is making mixtapes for the minimum wage, sliding faders or writing or washing dishes at three in the morning, sitting in the bathroom wishing she were good enough for food or friends, androgyny or art.

"In the beginning there was the word, and after that no one else got a word in." — Erik on John