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.

my artist website is here.

Dec 2, 2013

just do that thing that you do, in a perverse hue


when she sings a hybrid can withstand these things, my heart can beat with bricks and strings i swear to whatever absent or present Christ that might hover above me, wishing me well or feeding the dark cloud that follows my bloodline, that my tears well up something awful and beautiful in my eyes and, in this moment i want to lay your body down and crawl above you like a demon, with enough space between us so that my awful beautiful tears fall and find their way in to the crevice where your arm lays against your side, in to the well of your collar bone, and leak down to fill the millimeter of flesh between your toes.  let me cloak you, bathe you with my tears.  i promise, i won't make an ugly face when i cry.  i cry with a straight face.  every now and then, a trembling chin.  and that's if you're lucky.  like Caesar, no one gets to watch me die.  my betrayers will remain unsatisfied.

she sings brushes with darkness will not help you create your destiny of self  but i think i disagree.  i disagree because my whole life has been one brush with darkness after the next and it has been absolutely not of my choosing.  and in the midst of such ugliness i tended to my own face and my own soul: i scraped together whatever breakfast i could managed and i choked down whatever hope i could find.  in these moments, when the world turned away from the squalor of my birth, i loved the world anyway.  in these moments, i dreampt of your corners and promised myself that, one day, i would find a way to reach out and explore the shadow that marries your thigh to your hip.  no matter how many plane tickets or tears it may take to find it.

my imperfections are glaring but i don't give a fuck.  my love is perfect and complete and so is my lust.  i paint my eyes and my lips and crash into myself with the total fervor of your aching, confused heart.  lift up my skirts, lift up my sheets, bury your face in, bury your face in, bury your face in, bury your cock in, shove your faith and pain into whatever opening you find first.

put your headphones on and ignore the phone calls.

walking through crowds, all i see is myself-  my own hands swaying next to my hips, my feet pounding the concrete, and all the plane tickets i've bought myself.  i look to no one for the realization of my dreams.  just myself.  i look to no one.  no one.  just the darkness that brushes up against my cheek, parts my hair, paints my lips, my eyes, and puts a strong stride in my step.

keep it tight.  sometimes the simplest move is right.
the melody that you choose can rescue you.


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