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hyacinthsayearago:

Who could ever string these ideas together into something that could ever happen?

I mean

I mean

A story that ambles. Who? I’m nothing but disjointed things,

Swiping a match off your own palm, hypnotising

Your friends so you can plant ideas in their brains, telling

them the world would go on if they died. The world would flourish if they died.

Collecting seashell fragments in the back pages of a journal. I want the teachers to like me best.

I want the students to like my dress and hair, the others

Are far brighter and duller. I’m a fish in a plastic bag. No but I’m safe, the bag

Is a womb and I’m always going to be unborn. I can’t look at things

That move too fast without feeling like my eyes are tearing out of my skull. I’m finally learning the art of truth, I’m finally learning the art

Of telling a story: don’t do it, I’m training

To spill fragments onto streets,

I’m in training to turn the fog into a cat,

Yellow. To give it beady eyes. Yellow. To stand outside the houses of people I know and taste their cooking smells on my tongue. Collecting

old worn stained fabric scraps from particular heat wave days the same way some people keep Christmas cards or seaglass.

and we’ll never live in a bubble, I’m an ocean.

And ocean, and I’m not the same girl who wrote metaphors about silver studded sky. I’m not. Right now I’m not defining a thing,

This is just time. It’s all time. It’s all falling apart but also too solid to even tremble.

I exhale the fog of a whole city, it bloats me like a balloon and I want to glow. I’ve always wanted to radiate something,

Pure and clear and wonderful.  I nearly died on the bus today when I saw the girl I am from the outside, 

there was nothing wrong with her. It’s just I forget I forget I’m not everything.