what kisses and punches have in common is that they are points of contact.

and i suppose, that one can never take them back. whenever you kiss me, in the midst of horrific dreams, i am always angry. hot-mouthed and hot-tempered. thinking only with my skin. i was known for it, once. i left that trait behind in a version of myself abandoned on a lonely island with the others. the same place this self is destined to in an hour, a day, a month, a years time. an unknown time, but i feel the familiar stirring in my blood that says "soon". i tell myself "all will be well" in the same way you tell a child that their pet has gone to a better place. in the same way my friends call but all i can hear is them barking. better and easier so often seem like the same thing that i am always getting them confused. forgive me if i choose badly; the paths ahead are so hazy and its been such a long time since ive walked ground well-lit. sent a letter to all the pretty strangers: "either bring a torch or a flask". but everything i am and do is always too much or not enough, so i dont expect them to actually show up to this pity party. god knows i am better in dire straits than home taking time off like everyone else. flash, give me drama. give me malice. how i think about you: when you dont realise youre holding your breath til youre almost out.

"i fear that things i hate in myself are the only things youve ever loved". its been years since he said that and it still hits home every time i read it (often). i am just trying to find points of contact.

home again, home again

veins stirred full of champagne blood. as usual, i am up too late searching for faith in all the wrong places. if i had the words to give you, i would, i swear to god, i would. i am just sick to death of being awake. i hate to love to be special. i love to hate to be special. dont hold me to your rules; i can barely understand them. my head is wrecked on thoughts, just waiting to wash up on some sunny shore where you can have my heart only if you put whisky in my tea.

ive yet to find a way to describe this: how i am both so passionately curious and terribly afraid of anything human.

christ. i just need sleep.

dark-haired and steely-eyed

the thing about being distant is that by default you cant explain to anybody why youve been so distant.

kiss me electric

writing is easier in these earlier am's. decidedly less than fresh from hours of broken sleep, pounding coffee like free drinks at the red eye in st kilda. the tiny hours before work are a gift. if you have ever woken up into an empty house, tired and alone, you understand. there is a silent peace to it. i am loathe to give it up again.

i dream more vividly here, everything more in focus. last night the whole world was about to end but it didnt mean a thing when we discovered that your arm fit around my shoulders exactly right. and the cut of your form as i watch you work the room says i am safe. some people find security in money, in love, in possessions, in faith. i am still searching.

there are diamonds woven under my skin

"this is no bridget jones"

this is the summer of blood
i dream your body washed up on the sand
your sneakers in my hallway
vodka with a vodka chaser
who do i even know that orders drinks with mixers?
at the end of the day it is just you:
designed
a heart among spades
i can wait

i dyed my hair and i moved away but it didnt change a single thing where it counts. what do you think that means?

ps. though this is not the right tone at all - merry christmas.

i am all in on whatever you let slip between your teeth.

but dont blame me if i fold on your hearts.

whrisky business

"i'm bad for you"

said the coal mine to the canary

do you think he ever listened?

was i always this petty?

"they loved me first"

i've been writing about the future in a sort of kind of way

Just because he was handsome and from London didn't mean he meant anything to me. Only at the time it meant everything because I was a wine-drenched wreck of a human being. The kind who was scraping a few hours of sleep from her bed every night and kept a copy of Bridget Jones's Diary on her coffee table. Like that's really a coffee table book. God knows what I was thinking. Actually, I doubt he knew either. What I am saying here is that I didn't care about him because of anything to do with him; I cared about him because at the time, Bridget Jones's Diary was my coffee table book.