marisol. 14. aries. dragon.
it's raining smoke tonight and the sky
is knocking on my windowsill.

I Couldn’t Hear You Over the Sound of Your Fist

I always sound angry when I spit out my poetry, because I’m trying so hard to make my writing meaningful. Your fist is to bruises as my skin is to paper, fuck you. I remember in kindergarten, a girl used to lick paint off her fingers and our teacher would pretend not to notice. She moved away the summer before seventh grade. Everyone think she’s dead. That’s the biggest FUCK YOU of all. Let’s remember her as the Girl Who Died. Kick me in the ribs and I’ll probably vomit blood on your lap. You think you’re so special because I write songs about you. My words are stronger than your arms. I can cut your throat with my handwriting, but I won’t because I won’t need your blood when I paint the sky a different shade of beautiful. Throw me down the stairs and the only thing I’ll remember will be the sound of my wrists cracking under the weight of my waist. I may bruise easily, but my wounds heal faster than yours. I don’t need my poetry to heal. I need only myself to breathe

and that’s enough for me.

9:30 pm     1 note
July 29 2014

i was watching people when we were driving a two-hour drive (which winded up being a three-hour drive because my uncle loves taking longcuts) to my cousin’s house in sacramento. there was a couple two lanes to our right. i knew they were a couple because the girl let the guy put his feet on top of her glove compartment with his shoes on. she was driving and he was laughing at something on his phone and she was laughing with him. the guy had dreadlocks. the girl had her hair tucked behind a headband. her car had a bumper sticker that read “WITHOUT ART THE EARTH IS JUST EH.” they had two bikes tied to the back. i know they made me feel something because i just wrote a goddamn paragraph about them.

8:44 pm     1 note
July 28 2014

car window selfie

9:28 pm      1 note
July 25 2014

“This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do.”

— Richard Siken, You Are Jeff

11:25 pm     7 notes
July 24 2014
Post tags: beautiful richard siken you are jeff this piece breaks my heart words

A Tragic Love Story

I thought the wad of gum 
on the sidewalk was a rock
so I wrote about it.

You’re the gum.
My words are the rock.
And I’m the sidewalk.

No matter how far I run,
the school will burst into flames,
my feet get tired,
you’re still stuck on my skin,

hardening under the sun
like a rock,

like the words engraved
on my grandmother’s tombstone.

I’m still running,

under the sun.

I didn’t know the fire was burning
inside of me.

1:17 pm     2 notes
July 23 2014

10:24 pm
July 22 2014

We drove to Sacramento three days ago and drove by this little town that made me want to cry. A movie theatre: “BEGIN AGAIN NOW SHOWING.” An outdoor restaurant with a beautiful fountain. Friends walking hand in hand. An empty bar. Little shops. It was perfect. I want to live there.

My cousin taught me how to swim two days ago! I still don’t know how to float, but I can swim! 

Yesterday, the grown-ups went to the casino, which left me and my cousin to look after the little kids. We made them chocolate-covered bite-sized donuts and ordered Pizza Hut. I dipped the donuts in butter and cinnamon and she washed the dishes. The doorbell rang. She paid the guy sixteen dollars off of her “dogsitting” money and sliced the pizza into smaller pieces so that there’s enough for the six of us. We made smoothies, cut three straws in half, and played football in her pool, which made me realize how much I miss playing football. Then we just chilled out the rest of the day.

Drive home: 1 hour, 50 minutes, the mountains’ shadow against the sky’s remaining light, and a radio station that plays Michael Buble and Ingrid Michaelson.

9:20 pm
July 21 2014