it isn't hate, i suppose, just the hot temper and surge of being forlorn.
it isn't hopelessness, just fear of pain and of dealing pain.
the world is a strange, unspeakable place. i make myself a blanket. one short stitch at a time.
the things i long for are too hard to name (though i know exactly what they are). i have their textures close at hand. the colors i love best are tucked deep in my heart and folded against my eyelids. certain voices have nailed themselves in side my ear. there are days when their deep purr is all i hear and all i care to hear.
These texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from March 2007 - March 2015. It stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles I faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. Messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index I am proud of. It was here in this electric box that I learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person I needed to become. It was here that I first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.
Thank you for meeting me here in such tall grass.