fill your words with passionate burning and then fill my mouth with diamonds and smoke,
light fires in the houses,
light fires in the bedrooms,
paint your insides red and press your fingers into my skin.
breathe smoke signals against my lips and fold your cinders into my veins.
paint the city with our names while you trace your body onto mine with ashes and india ink.
draw to life your bones with mine, because I'm screaming and trying to reach for you.

I've been thinking on how anxious it makes me that I can never say or do anything I feel, because I don't know how to act in social situations.
I am constantly noticing small things about people and falling in love with them, like a freckle or the way someone's voice changes when they speak about something they care for.
I want to reach for you, but I don't know how.

A moment- Charles Bukowski

I don't know if this is true to you but for me
sometimes it gets so bad
that anything else
say like
looking at a bird on an overhead
power line
seems as great as a Beethoven
symphony.
Then you forget it and you're back
again.

When I come home from Vancouver, I am going to buy a giant bag of plaster and plaster everything in the world. Starting with bottles and ash trays and antlers and lightbulbs and my hands and those little fake birds that come in fake flower arrangements. New favourite medium.

scandinavian girl, dreaming of paris.

my hands finally feel as though they are moving for me again, and not for you.