"A girl and her bed are an endless love affair on sundays"
Today I lay in bed in my underwear with all the windows open wide listening to a symphony of traffic and angry italians three floors down. I paint my toenails green then braid and unbraid my unwashed hair to feel it flip back and forth against my face to the beat of island reggae echoing through the speakers. I watch myself in the mirror across the room mouth along to the lyrics. The reflection of tan spider arms swaying out the sides of a wrinkled Zeppelin shirt and leopard bra peaking out atop exposed ribs. I spread my legs about my tie-dye jersey sheets and breath in the air of a virgin saturday afternoon.
One day I hope I can remember the innocence of scraped knees and grass-stained overalls. I hope I can forget betrayal and remember when hurt was a four letter word I didn’t yet know how to pronounce.
This has been my laptop wallpaper for the last two years. Still as relevant as ever.
SOJA- October 7th- Milano, Italy
I’m so fucking excited.
It’s funny. When you leave your home and wander really far, you always think, ‘I want to go home.’ But then you come home, and of course it’s not the same. You can’t live with it, you can’t live away from it. And it seems like from then on there’s always this yearning for some place that doesn’t exist. I felt that. Still do. I’m never completely at home anywhere.
You taste like rock bottom. You remind me of standing alone at the corner after school waiting for your drunken mother to come barreling around the corner in her bathrobe. All I see when I see you is my bother’s balding chin. And infected teeth. You’re mesmerizing. You play hard to get, but you’re so easy. I am ashamed of you. I am ashamed of being near you; ashamed that I have fallen for your trap. You are drunken nights spent running around an unknown city, trying to run upright down the middle of the street, dodging traffic and screaming at the top of my lungs. But just like those nights and those friends, you are disposable. You are a short high. You are an excuse to look sophisticated for two minutes. You are an excuse to escape life and feel nothing from the tips of my fingers to the bottom of my soles. You are the taste of regretful one-night stands and waking up in the arms of a boy whose name you can’t seem to remember. You are toxic. You are the voice in the back of my head telling me that I am not as happy or as pure as I preach. I am a human being. I am twenty years old, fucked up in the head and trying to justify my reasoning for everything. You are an escape. You are my escape. You remind me that I am not as in control as I have convinced myself that I am. I have you between my fingers; you have me by the throat.
Sitting in the train station trying to do my creative writing homework. This is what I wrote down on the back of a spare envelope I found in my back pack.
I want to know why:
- I only have the urge to pick up a cigarette around my acquaintances and usually under the influence of alcohol
- The man who just hopped off the from Trastevere train just crossed over the tracks
- The Italian woman who came to my door this afternoon begging for money came back a second time with man at least seven feet tall
- The thought of being with one person for the rest of my life terrifies me
- Why my hands get clammy thinking about talking to that guy I met that one time in downtown Rome every Monday during Shakespeare class
- Yelling in Italian sounds so much better than yelling in English
- My mother is incapable of keeping relationships, a job, or taking care of herself like a reasonable human being
- My anxiety level peaks when I am traveling, yet I have this desire to go everywhere and have travelled my entire life
- Large groups of girls make me ashamed to be a female
- Slightly green bananas taste monumentally better than ripe bananas