maybe that's my problem.
you remind me of a lot of things, like magpies & sylvia plath. i guess you're just that indie in my head. & black embroidered tights with runs on the knees. & empty beer cans. it's ridiculous how much you skip across my mind... even know: i wonder if you'll ever read this. i think you're a pirate, girl. it's all your golden teeth. & it's your ten bony fingers, skeleton pointing, holding a cigarette. i want to show you my stupid tattoo & i want you to run your hands over it while we lie in the grass--i think it would cure the itching. mostly; mostly. i want to buy you a bunch of pretty sun-yellow daisies. & a pack of marlboro's wrapped in pink paper with a red ribbon tied around it in a bow. i want to leave it on your porch & doorbell ditch you like i did to all of my juniour high crushes. maybe i'll do that now.
god. i wish i knew where you lived.
ebony curls.
pretty, pretty palms.
