13. bronze and beat

this was a mistake. my heart is like a squished stress ball. it’s not the cracks in a piñata ready for fun. more like the loops of a crochet shall filtering in the oceanic cold. i dipped my hair in fire expecting it to keep myself warm. as i glimpse the wind winged seagulls, i realize that i drift often to thought patterns with you arrowed in the forefront. mush that became liquified. and evaporated into the blueness of the sky. maybe i am the opposite of clever. maybe i am roasted air that rises. maybe i want somebody. maybe i still want that somebody to be you. whatever. does any of this matter? when families are torn apart and little girls aren’t eating. the world is suffering more than the flames of my head reading a collection of romantics.

xoxo,

mute style

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11. power lunch

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emergence of january.

somedays i hike in a dress. appearing like a business women marching to a forest. the twittering birds and tourists scattered along the path. power lunch tucked away. grateful i still have this sanctuary of escape. the rain heightens the greenery. the path to simplicity. i haul along my camera because of this intent necessity to create. to showcase something. something stomached. something to explicate. my pleasure with muddy soles.

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xoxo,

mute style

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

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