That light in your eyes that's just a little wild, a little dangerous.
JENAH · 21 · F · TX
The sticky thickness of the air outside somehow seeped through the sides of my window. Slowly, the room feels more and more resistant to my movement, and the heat will eventually lull me into dreamless sleep.
I haven’t dreamt in a while. This saddens me because I like updating my journal about them —as odd as they come. Maybe it’s the stress —but what stress is bigger than your subconscious as you sleep?
During the day, the humidity makes me feel like I’m biking through honey, and it does nothing to help my hair. I end up looking like a toy poodle.
I hope it rains soon. I miss seeing unabashed sunshine.
could have stayed the way we were.
But if we did, would that really have been better?
I’m a bitter fool who hides behind almost-debilitating procrastination and poor judgement for short-term goals.
Dust sits on the shelves of my room, though the books never get covered. I will not lie and say that I read through them frequently, but you’ll find the glue unstuck where I always flip to my favorite parts.
That’s the thing about books. They fall apart while you fall together into your own.
Whirpool -Words -Flicker -Flutter -Flat. No. Yes. Turn your head. Your hand is hurting, move it. Go. Stay. Leave. Never come back. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. There. Shh.
a w a k e .
She forgot how the art in someone’s eyes can make her cry, make her voice a watery shiver mid-sentence; make her wish she still called them home.
"God is love," they’d tell her— but it was funny because she found God inside those
goddamn irises, staring back at her when they made love. Vaguely she wondered about the bite mark below her ribs, shaped like a coffee mug ring on a worn out table.
Art and God and love existed and will find her again soon enough.
I sleep in bedsheets
wrinkled by someone who stopped
dreaming in color.