wanderer my unsteady hands are graceless; my canvas spacious, my facelessness gracious in the midst of an outdated sensation. i'm aimless, but i like to think i always was.
i don't know if this is good there are fleeting moments of fantasy; passions submits to brevity, and i to gravity. but there is hope in knowing there are more between the lines to share.
I used to derive a sick sort of masochistic pleasure from re-reading my old poetry. It was something I used to punish myself with, in a paradoxical way. "Look at how good you were. Look at you now." And yet... "Look at how awful you were. You haven't changed." And I thought that's how it… Continue reading hello, old me
There's a big part of me that wants to hide away from the world. I've thought about it a lot. I'd live in a small apartment with everything I'd need; lots of blankets and stuffed animals to keep me company, lots of big shirts to stay comfy, and a completely full fridge with enough chocolate… Continue reading my heart
One of my favorite types of houses are those big, white suburban houses. Coastal with big windows to allow for good lighting and French doors, and a nice large porch. I imagine myself living there in some northern state with my husband who's a lawyer, my 2.5 kids, and my cat and my dog. The… Continue reading houses
i've had this blasted blog for 3 years now i move through life with catalogued motions; conscious beats of my heart punctuated with beatings of my brain
death beware of the allure of the void; it ends when you do, and then it begins.