Worse, or better?

People grow together. Like twisting trees or python balls and no less complicated.
Now growing apart, that's what takes nerve.

I wish I could see and feel my head explode from the inside out. If I slam it against the ivy covered wall outside enough, maybe I will.

Of Culture Shock and Inadequacies.

I found the cracks so quickly.

How silly of me to think they were in the sidewalks, and not in my strained smile. A new city does not a new girl make. I thought I could wash it off of me, watch it pool and ring around the shower drain. Leave pieces of myself on the lovingly prepared clean sheets.

All I can do is shove and push, all claws and teeth and nails and passive aggressive tones. Inside my head my screams are deafening and pathetic. Love me, but don't touch me.

My heart is like one of those feral Eastern Block dog children.

Kissing Foreign Fishes...

A new city for my feet to find cracks in the sidewalk. In twenty-four hours I'll be hurtling through the air, speeding my way to San Francisco.

I feel predatory. Tightly wound. I need rough strong hands to hold me down, to tie me to this earth. And I wonder, do I have to return? Could I disappear in the masses, in a city where nobody knows my face?

All of that water will sing to me. Surrounded on all sides in a bay...It will be so hard for me not to throw myself off a ferry, or casually slip backwards into the water somewhere frothy and sharp.
I don't desire destruction, or pain. It's the water. It calls to me. If the moon was large and bloated I'd been done for. With the moon and the ocean singing to me, pulling at my bones and womb, it's an undeniable compulsion sometimes.

I used to jump off of these high high rocks as a teenager, all alone in the woods with the deep creek running a mile away, with it's waterfall and rounded smooth stones and strange red frogs. I would fling myself off, never being afraid once. Not even when I hit the ring of rocks below at times. I loved the cold. My lips would turn blue, and I would stretch out on the moss naked, and shiver. And no one ever asked about the bruises, since there were already ones fading from my father's hand.

Errant Amphibians, Mollusks, and Puppy Parts.

My heart cracks open every morning.
I don't know why, or how. But it does, wide and shiny like the inside of an eggshell. But it isn't fragile, my shiny eggshell heart.
It's banded with steel and stones and sharp things, bone fragments and razor-wire.

And now I've put it back together. Set the polished pieces in place, like a puzzle with a small missing piece. I'll walk in the sunshine today, and daydream of the ocean and the moon.

In which the biological imperative gives me the finger.

I want all of him.
I want to grind into him and be so deep that he presses into my ribcage.
Divine and dangerous lust. I wish I had no filters, no inhibitions. I want to smell of spit and sex and heat and salt. I want to taste it on my skin, and lathe it from his with my tongue.

But I hide behind lowered eyelids. I hope that the pulse pounding in my chest and throat is not visible. I glide when I walk, hoping the slickness in my sex isn't apparent.
I try to focus on the rippling waves of sun that prism off my windowsill, squinting my eyes and making motes of dust in the air glisten like tiny angels. And instead I will grind the heels of my hands into my eyes, and sigh softly.

If home is where the heart is then I do not have a pulse...

Just tap your feet along with your heartbeat, and don't say a word to anyone.