here comes a greek tragedy

She was laughing even as we kissed and kissed again.There is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth.

I am very sad and I feel more miserable than I can say, and I do not know how far I’ve come. I do not know what to do or what to think, but vehemently desire to leave this place.

Camera flash, shot, coffee cup, pocket jangle, shake of salt, persistent smudge on the left lens, cat scratches in a place I don’t scratch anymore, hole in the pocket of my only dress with pockets HEY DID YOU KNOW THIS DRESS HAS POCKETS slight buzz of adrenaline when I see your face and girl, am I happy to see your face and girl, am I happy to see your face and girl, am I happy to be standing in place? when I’m stuck to the spot when there’s gum on my shoe only one - can I scrape off half? make it evenly spread? - would it help if I shook my head, shook it off, shake again, no, you’re scaring your friends no, you’re scaring your friend no, you’re scaring your scaring you’re paying attention they’re paying attention and girl, is it fucking bright on this stage and girl, is it fucking TIGHT in this skin (a bit too tight, on the left and too loose on the right and how would you go about evening it out, how would you go about an evening out like this? how do you win? you don’t you stay in in in) between the camera flash,shot,coffee cup,pocket jangle,shake of salt,persistent smudge on the left lens,cat scratches in a place I don’t scratch anymore,hole in the pocket of my only dress with pockets I think the world could probably end and still carry on I think it already has I think it’s been and gone

today I didn’t leave the house, & if I were anyone else, this would be OK. but mama keeps asking me what’s wrong, like she can smell the sadness tainting the living room. I like to sit and stare at nothing, I’ve made it a hobby but mama…oh mama. SHE KEEPS ASKING ME WHAT’S WRONG. I don’t know. I don’t know. I watch a cloud drift past, vision blurring when I cry. and I text mama, tell her to bring me bruised apples. new hobby: dipping fingers into rotten fruit. also: praying.

i. nostalgia smells like vanilla ice cream & lost baby teeth & the first house you lived in & band-aids & pinky swears & scraped knees & fairy dust & your favourite english teacher handing out gold stars like candy. nostalgia is the dead thing that stays dead. it resists resurrection. it says: how do you save yourself from the things you once were? ii. regret feels like tickets for missed trains & secrets whispered when someone is asleep & looks given when someone isn’t looking back & snapped wishbones & grocery lists of could-have-beens & attention paid to wrong things. regret is more powerful than time. it says: you silly girl. look what almost was if you had only been brave enough. iii. shame looks like stretch marks & broken glass & handprint-shaped bruises & dirty sheets & lipstick stains & pills pills pills & kryptonite in the shape of someone you once recognised. shame is the only lover that offers the self-loathing to keep you both warm. it says: i am your favourite bedfellow and i will make sure you never forget. iv. love tastes like cotton candy & diary entries & wasted hours & there are small loves & forbidden loves & waited-too-long loves & cruel loves & i-want-you-but-you-want-someone-else loves. love demands an audience when it walks in or sleeps like a fairytale. it says: i understand waiting. i understand that sometimes, it takes a kiss to save a life. iv. loneliness smells like empty restaurants & hallways of strangers & untouched hands & one thousand years without human contact & birthdays spent alone & atrophying tongues & long walks by very deep lakes. loneliness never looks you in the eye. it says: sometimes it takes one kind of grief  to understand another.