If The Elephants Have Past Lives

pretty girls with pretty mouths float above the concrete and i stomp the sidewalk, shoes duct taped to my feet, pale skinned and not knowing where to be. it's disconcerting and everything feels foreign and usually i just want to go home

homehomehome

you know, between the purple sheets or maybe inside your hands or maybe in the paint and the photographs and the words wrapped around my wrists (words like iloveyoupleasebelieveme. and idonthinkiwantobehere.)

i want to be in art school if i have to be in any school but mostly i just want to be where i was in the summer, with flowers in my hair drinking till i'm delerious and falling asleep next to you or on best friends floors. i want to be in busses in backseats of cars sitting behind waterfalls watching the sun set and rise over oceans skinny dipping under full moons sleeping naked painting all the ways you make me feel and synchronizing thoughts to the sound of Cut the Cards

cut the cards makes me cry

but its your song. so i pretend that i dont feel anything because i dont want to take that away from you

i want to build tiny houses with my hands, all rambling with shingles that dont match. i want weathered walls and anonymity and hopping trains and i want to leave purposeful footprints behind me when i walk to anywhereeverywherenowhere

please god let this happen

i miss santeria

i feel like i'm doing what i'm expected to do, get a good education so i can go get a good job and live inside those trivialised overused four letters that mean nothing

i don't feel happy

i'm lonely