It's almost 10:30 pm and I am thinking about the woman on the radio
who sang about how she's made of "dirt and stardust"
and, sleepily, I wrote those lyrics on the back of my sketchbook
And about how I wish I had an
accent,
every word drenched with butter
or spices
the flavor of my country
but instead I just have
grease.
As I'm writing this the flashlight's
spot of light
is half-spilling onto my wall,
"Helena Beat" is stuck in my
head, and has to stay there because
I wrote it down.
I know tomorrow I will wake up
with a cramped hand
and remember that I wrote.
look back on it, and think that it is
stupider
than I
thought.

Even the corner of the heating pad is warmer than what I feel for you.
There's no red-hot passion here, on the contrary;
there is only a numb cold in my chest cavity
a gnawing anxiety and pale
annoyance,
bruised,
which for some sickening reason
I
love.

You'd better call her before you ask her out and see if her voice is cute over the phone
Sometimes when I  sleep I tangle my fingers in my hair and pretend they're not mine
But not this morning
today I'm content with my fingers intertwined with my own
I'm not lonely, probably because I need to ***.
If I was brave enough, would this be enough?

11-6-14
I saw my name on your contacts list
and wondered how many times your finger hovered over the "call" button.
---
I hope you, or at least someone
thinks at least some things about me are cute
the way my hair sticks up and then flops over when I try to fix it
and, when pinned up,  the way it becomes gradually messier over the course of the day.
When I mouth the words to a song on the school bus,
scrunching my eyes and headbanging,
or when I spin around on my heels, and try to look graceful.
---
Frick, I shouldn't try to write about love, i'm just a thirteen-year-old girl
who grew up on the internet
and doesn't care about the ****** music she's listening to.

-Sleeping with the lights on
-strawberry-flavored milk (because it tastes bad, but is so cute)
-naps
-being on the brink of sleep and having to pull yourself back
-you
-the smell of something smoky
-smoke getting in my eyes
-drooping eyelids
-hair in my eyes
-bad quality lipgloss
-sleeping with the lights off
-other people
---but mostly you

Sept. 29th, 2014
Is combing and brushing your eyebrows in the morning.
It's leaning on the cold car window with earbuds
and as the last notes play, thinking
"Please don't make this a happy song
I don't deserve a happy song."
It's seeing ads for a clearance sale
plastered on a store that almost never is occupied
and seeming to just know that it's
it's subtle way of going out of business.
It's knowing and not believing.
It's breaking out in a cold sweat when you finish a book.
It's wishing I could go home
and lie on my carpet
and peel all my skin off
then crawl back inside
and maybe feel comfortable this time.

Now all I have left is
water in my ears, heavy chlorine in my hair,
a hangover from lack of sleep, and
"Mama" playing along to the demented viewmaster in my head:
K snorting fun dip from a paper plate and
rolling on the floor with her blue-black tongue.
us running across the train tracks,
nettles scritching my poorly-shaven legs.
And us trying to perform a satanic ritual
in a hotel pool.
Surprisingly, thirteen doesn’t feel any different,
does it?