07. rinsed

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5:08 p.m. pst sunday, january 8, 2017

i was told “no single riders.” like a wash bin full of mushy letters. soaked to the point of lost meaning. the motion of the ferriswheel halt. my eyes jumped bitter. don’t rock the carts. murmuring bushwa to the painted walls. my addition to the stories being written on this pier. my words will end up in bargain boxes with the cover art ruined by fifty percent off stickers. some disapproved isolation. my solitude is forced into corners and fed the leftover pigeon’s bread. my sister is four states away and my heart is hidden in the clouds. the muddy tide is right there. rinsed but never clean. the panic of living incorrectly. grab the hand of a stranger with a bubble gun and shoot my mind loud. somehow required to become shrill and unhappy. it’s only me, and that statement shouldn’t seem lonely.

xoxo,

mute style

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05. seperation anxiety

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morning.

escaping the fire with a double steeped green tea and “i wrote this for you.” drifting to subtle guitar and storybook lyrics. cozy in forgetting. i thought of him today. but only briefly at 9 am. place those ideas in pockets with used tissues and pennies that cannot buy anything. listen to the fire engines and neighborhood alarms. simply sigh into the metal rails ironed to my spine. keep reading poems that i will quote when relevant.

-THE FLOOR TAKES SO LONG TO HIT-

Congratulations.

You took me down. And now, you have made everything that is sad, relevant.

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evening.

commotion. teasing stop lights. the click of shoes down pavement. my lips are full of peppered cars leaving taillights. a shaken mind. i’d ask for his affection. oh i’d seek it in bustling Friday nights with arms around waists. leading lovers to liquid satisfaction. i’d seek it in the hollow spaces between my fingers. this separation anxiety. tug my hair. pull it into a rope around my simple thoughts on love. the easiness to pour oneself empty for the enjoyment of another. cluster those feelings for you if demanded. but i think the dizziness of lights has me confused.

xoxo,

mute style

04. buzzed

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buzzed and bumbled. this vacant parking garage. like sneaking popcorn in a theatre, my feet find section c3. no jangling car keys on this girl. sidewalk stepping, uber conversing, and throwing my converse in the wash. i smile at princess backpacked girls on the metro. i chat with the skateboard crew hitting rails on the block. i navigate buildings and strengthen my memory. on my way to a vegan burger and late night showing of “20th Century Women.” in the meantime just a beaded cocktail dress filling the silent cement.

xoxo,

mute style

03. holes in my socks

DSC_0592.jpgDSC_0533.jpgDSC_0603 (1).jpglayered like a cake as the gray day whisked me downtown. but sugary words are not capable of frosting this poem. a cherry pie in the face. not so poetic being alone. love is a nice creamy filling that makes life bearable. and i’m becoming caffeine crazed. (again.) ask those thrifted boys i meet for coffee, do you believe in “the” love of your life? a toasty person like one singular pair of worn in socks. finding sentimental holes or losing one in the wash. sometimes love is misplaced. but you’ll never forget the name.

xoxo,

mute style

02. perfume

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perfume. the vehement whiff of a bus stranger in the spot to your left. the scent eluding of picking flowers backwards till “he loves me back.” it’s okay, i once believed an overpriced bottle of infused liquid and the rash from imitating the blooms cut away in a sixth floor window box. the daisies crammed besides rows of empty blinds. the count of pretty things. a newborn’s rosy cheek. distinctively me pretty. sinking in a vase like a person. the girl across the aisle with thick eyeliner and a smile apprehends my sedentary meadow.

xoxo,

mute style