some sort of unknowable pull.
some sort of intoxicated desire.
some sort of gross need.
some sort of unnameable itch.
some sort of gasping breath.
some sort of gaping mouth.
some sort of begging bitch.
burning across this livid skin, this apologetic pink?
what immoral ache?
as if eyes had never found my face.
see me as if i were new.
what of all this anxiety and demand?
shut your mouth until it's time to kiss.
your face in my telephone.
your torso rising in my bereft and lonely dreams.
some sort of answer.
some sort of opiate.
some sort of comfort.
some sort of eager whisper across the knees.
some sort of fever.
some sort of austere hope.
some sort of home.
what fire. what spit. what fuel.
your accent tonguing the tips of my syllables,
polishing my silent cowboy edges.
in your mouth,
my fearful disbelief
never had it so good.
some sort of mirror.
some sort of reckoning.
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.