there’s a point and sometimes i forget it, i forget the tip of the pencil when i’m typing for weeks and i forget what the soft breath feels like between my lungs when i touch acrylic paint. i forgot what a journal feels like in my lap because my loneliness manifests its self into the sinking of my head into the nooks of your underarms. its all lavender here, all fake, all a precursor before the big bad world, before actual streets that go both ways and bigger downtowns with more graffiti which i think just means more cr e a t i v i t y.
i’ve had a migraine for a while, a stupid lull that sits behind my eyes, with a brain that pushes with all of its might to explode or explore new territories or spaces but my skull wont let it. my skull, my skull, a drum or an excuse for a shield that does nothing for me if i was to fall off my bike without a helmet so i just don’t get why it won’t just break now so i can escape.
if i could just go, i wonder where my feet would take me or how far my money would let me break free, if i was born into a tribe where my dreams were my mind and not a fragment of my lucid reality, not a laced hallucinogen as a byproduct of my excessive drinking, pill popping and smoking, all i need is one drink, just one, and my body’s rejecting any type of help i try and give it.
because without it i am nothing, without you i am nothing, without my thoughts i am nothing, without my quirks i am nothing. if i let my self sink i will sink into the bottom of a sea shell like pieces of sand that collect and form stones and calcified fragments. i will become that like i will become the worst part of me, a boring step down of how my mom used to be, or a strange girl version of my dad in his peak. who am i but a byproduct, what am i other than a number. how do i escape the impossibilities of a migraine
from a girl who carries nothing but sea shells on her back.