22. just a dream

the ambition of my mind scintillates with him chasing me along sandy shores. beach weeds. salty tongues. a few borrowed sunbeams. knowing very well it is just a dream.

xoxo,

mute style

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thrifted vocabulary

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thirty minutes too long in the dressing room. regarding the crack running from the ceiling. sidestepping the sun spit. lizards losing skin. the lipstick vandalism. kissing the napkin from the piece-of-cake shaped dressing room. an image pointed through the sky. glimpsing beauty. the definition of shell buttons on a cotton dress and the resemblance of the confident girl wearing them. try on the puff of frosting and lick the floor clean. pull the fork from my iris. and continue eating. an excerpt from the dressing room diaries.

xoxo,

mute style

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

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