VentiMagic

if I hadn't called. if I couldn’t beg. a bench would be my bed. a cardboard gushers box propped by two yerba matte cans would provide as a pillow. and the tub of cherry vanilla ice I bought at the bodega would freeze my bones. laid in an image of blue lips and vanilla cherry stained hands, my figure would draw the neighbours. your glare would tower over me like the stack of books that looked over your equidistant piles of clothing. I'd ignore you for the morning. I'd watch you outplay a deck of cards. I'd lay.

im tired of these stupid metaphors boys apply to my reckless behavior. i am not a storm when my frail body is sore on the bathtub floor as the hot water warms my cold puffy eyes. i do not burn like fire when i kiss lips of strangers on the bathroom floor of a fast food restaurant in the middle of the night. my body is not as beautiful as the rare flower that grows in the middle of nowhere that no one talks about. i am simply a being with skin filled with mixed emotions and no sense of moral. i crave affection and loathe it at the same time, i cry and scream and lust over the people who hurt my sense of control. i am not a poem, i am a person with an addiction to destruction. i am purely me, and once these poets strip down and remove these metaphors and similes, they are left with something much scarier than the crippling demon they described in their poem. 

i am completely intoxicated as I type these words I believe are what culminare into your entire existence. my adolescent brain believe you are everything I could ever want. however I am invisible and you see that destroys every ounce of my being. I am stupid I am oblivious to the importance of other things. I hate efdhrbing and I rlly feel like leaving all this for a while

why am I so obsessed with love?

nighttime is my favorite time of day, however it has always placed an emphasis on ending in my hometown. i desire a place that begins at midnight. a place full of creatures who live at the creaks and crevices of a fever of strobes and fear. chaotic endeavors in the blankets we place above our wounded scars that open up the egos of the smallest of men with the most gentle of tugs. i fall at each table without a sense of embarrassment for any human emotion flew out with every bump and vibration of sound that encapsulated our desperate bodies. i believe in this place, without homes, that does not mind where you wake up or your means of transportation. a place that holds only the simple requirement of fighting for your content. a fight for okay.

We all been there girl..