soft things

                thick, short grass

                                                      cats
          cafe au lait
                                       
                                 quiet, late-night phone call voices
 
the smell of baking bread
 
                                                              silvery-blue
                  knitted hats
                       
                                                       moonlight through the window

                                       shade trees
        dandelions
                                             Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

                    hand-holding
     
           

pain in three flavors

1. He called Friday night, very late, and by the time the call ended I had chewed my lip raw and tangy.
2. Blood on the hand towels.
3. In her dark car, we talked about a boy, and she rubbed at her earlobes, just like I do.

12 pm and my dusty telephone rings

While I was gone, I was music-free for two weeks. And often when I'd wake up, this song would be running through my head, even though I hadn't heard it in a year. Maybe that says something. I don't know.

11 AM – Incubus

running away

      "Anne's awfully sensitive," said Rhoda. "And she's bad about—well, facing things. If anything's upset her, she'd just rather not talk about it—although that isn't any good really—at least I don't think so. Things are there just the same, whether you talk about them or not. It's only running away from them to pretend they don't exist. I'd rather have it all out however painful it would be."
      "Ah," said Mrs. Oliver quietly, "but you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn't."
      Rhoda flushed.
      "Anne's a darling."
      Mrs. Oliver smiled.
      She said: "I didn't say she wasn't. I only said she hadn't got your particular brand of courage."

From Cards on the Table by Agatha Christie, pg. 122

a short note I can't send you

Come over and hang out with me. I need a shoulder to rest my head on. We can make cinnamon toast and listen to sad punk music.

(Everything's hard recently. I can't even tell you about it. It will get better, won't it? Soon?)

(I miss you. Please miss me back.)

to-do list for June

• swim in running water
• pray harder than ever
• don't run away

things I can't shake

I hope it rains tomorrow.

People keep asking me "what's next?" and I tell them I don't know, because all I really want is a chance to stop and look around.

Last Wednesday a baby laid her head on my chest and cried quiet, slow tears. I traced my fingers up and down her spine, and rocked, back and forth, trying to soothe her with the rhythm of my breathing. She felt so fragile resting in the curve of my elbow.

Last Saturday my best friend called and we talked for a while. He mentioned that he had read an article recently in which the authors advised new husbands to tell their wives every day that they are capable, beautiful, and loved. "Every day! Isn't that ridiculous?" he said. "That's baloney."

On Sunday, a boy I had a past with wrote me to say happy birthday. We started talking a little. He still remembers exactly what I told him the last time we met. That was always his way: he noticed things I never meant for him to notice, and remembered everything.

On Monday I had two pieces published in a magazine, and it gave me a kick I'd forgotten. It inspired an echo in the back of my mind. It's the same question I can't get away from: what's next? What's next?
(Think very hard. Reevaluate.)

Today is Tuesday. I am twenty years old. I have three holes punched into each ear, and small silver scars on the second knuckle of each hand. Am I fragile? Am I beautiful? I want to be beautiful.

Maybe it will rain tomorrow.