You can’t wait for magic. You have to be magic, make magic happen. So looking for you, and waiting is hard. I can’t create it, nor can I wait patiently for the impossible.
Do you want to dance? To not be impatient because I want to sit in the dark grass and pretend I remember the constellations from the constellation crayon box I had as a child? Do you like to drink tea; more than one cup? And not feel guilty for drinking the entire box of tea in one sitting? Will you drive at ungodly hours until we can’t see the city lights just so I can stare at the moon, and say yes if I ask you to howl with me? And I might not wake up early the next day, and we won’t feel like a moment was wasted. If you won’t listen to the torment of a heart, I will. Would you drink my salty tears and feel the life of them turn your soul into rubies? And then I’ll never want another soul, or different eyes peering at me because you realize (and recognize) we have entire universes living inside us, and that’s too much for either of us to bear.
You can create magic, and hope for perfection, because that is what we all are.

I just got told my pup’s a killer. Yea. She’s real vicious y’all. Watch out! #bullybreed #punishthedeednotthebreed #pitties

I just got told my pup’s a killer. Yea. She’s real vicious y’all. Watch out! #bullybreed #punishthedeednotthebreed #pitties

A tent of sky

The thunder sounded like gun shots in the sky. It shook my bed with its might and I looked to the rain. The sun peaked out from the blotchy clouds. I walked to every window in the house, taking in each view as different as they could be. One window showed darkness and a downpour. The other was clear sky, but the rain continued and the thunder rolled from the other side of the house. A puppy sighed and whimpered in her sleep, undisturbed from the storm. She was born in the summer swamp and was used to the sounds and smells of our afternoon storms. I was not born from a summertime swamp and looked to the skies with awe. Another gunshot ripped the skies and echoed into the distance. I wanted to be in it, splashing in the trash filled puddles of my street, but something kept me under the dry roof. I closed my eyes and imagined the rain falling on the lake’s surface, the birds flying for cover, the fish jumping for joy. Another blast brought me back to the rain streaked window and a quiet meow at my feet. The meow was not a summer borne swamp baby, either, and she looked at the rain with hesitation. When I awoke the sky was as dark as night, the thick clouds hiding the sun for the rest of the evening. Water dripped from the tree leaves instead of the sky and the thunder was distant and slowly moving away.

Nola 💜 (at Spotted Cat Music Club)

Nola 💜 (at Spotted Cat Music Club)

505

I was born in the great state of New Mexico. I lived there until I couldn’t, or someone told me I shouldn’t. I thought I could fill the void I felt so deeply in my heart with new houses, new people, with the sun farther away from any location than that desert. I get asked why I left, and I never say “because I wanted to run away.” But I took all the dirt with me, in my pockets and hair and the back of my throat. I ran with Albuquerque on the soles of my feet until I found nothing but calloused heels. I burned piñon and juniper in those nights of insomnia and I prayed in secret to our lady of Guadeloupe, not The Mother, but any mother. I carried turquoise on my fingers and Santa Fe on my skirts. I sat in a swamp, as happy as any cactus lucky enough to escape the droughted dirt could be. And as happy as that cactus was, a dry beating sun that smelled of sage and lavender still beamed out my eyes.

Tags: newmexico

Sip my tea and sit and dream

I want to watch the moon rise over a mountaintop while I watch the glow of a fire grow dim. Listening to crickets will be music and pressing my toes into the dirt, a massage.
I want to feel steady breaths on my back while my eyelids surrender to rest. I’ll move in subconsciousness and feel a leg or a foot. I’ll press the sole of my foot against it and slow my heartbeat.
I’ll never see police lights again, or hear the wail of an ambulance.
I’ll let my hair grow long into braids that rest atop my head like a crown. I’ll forget the days my lips feigned red. Forget that I cared my feet were calloused or my bones grew crooked. I’ll forget the smell of cologne, gladly.
I’ll sit on a porch and watch the sky with a smile so genuine I won’t realize it adorns my lips.
Music will play to an empty room, and fill it with tales of woe, rising and everything that falls in between.
I’ll think of the story of the axe, cutting through a tree, one made from the other.

"They sprout out of the cement,
growing where they shouldn’t.
Rising up patiently
with exemplary will and dignity.
Without lineage,
wild, unclassifiable by botanists.
A strange, rampant,
absurd beauty.
They adorn the greyest of corners,
don’t own anything
and nothing can stop them.
A metaphor for uncontrollable life
that paradoxically forces me
to face my weakness."

— Sidewalls

A time in a life

It wasn’t ever very natural. Over the time spent apart they always had to relearn how to act. Relearn how to kiss each other. They didn’t mind. She waited for him, to hear the thick truck engine shut off and the boots on the porch. The door would open and she would immediately engulf him. He smelled like tilled dirt and salt. His Carhart pants would be stiff from weeks of walking. They had there, overwhelmed with how much they’d missed each other and how long ago that feeling seemed, though only moments had passed. He would give her the letters he wrote her that he cut from the blank pages of his books and she read and re-read them while he washed the salty smell away. Then they would roll about for hours, overjoyed to no longer be alone, and sleep. Above all, and even in the end and after the end all they cared to do was sleep.

The sky turned black

I felt used to the shouting. I have grown accustomed to drowning it out and experiencing silence inside. The vibrations of the music, the talking, the dancing in the street reminded me of something simple and sweet, but it reminded him of something sinister and convoluted.
We talked about it. We laughed.
I listen to frogs “gruuuup” all night long. They lull me and I tip my whiskey in appreciation.
Some afternoons the sky turns black. A wind picks my hair up and threatens to destroy us. Trudging the rain has become an everyday activity. Something I no longer think about. It comes with a shrug and a wave. It brings a coolness to my skin I only dreamt I couldn’t remember. It exists. It breaths life into me and my neighbor watches me from across the street, through the rain, through clouds of both our cigarette smoke.