Omelette theif 

Do I regret it? Absolutely not. 

Whole egg with mozzarella, peppers, and a perfect mix of ham and bacon. I’m never going back to the dullness of  pre-whipped egg and cheddar. As I watch you stand impatiently at the omelette line waiting for your beautiful concoction, I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. But come on….you were being selfish by keeping this treasure to yourself. Enjoy my boring omelette bitch 

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intoxicated thoughts

I’m blogging for the first time while I’m drunk. How do I feel?

Not bad….I suppose. But not good. Like a contempt kind of melancholy. I just know I could be doing more. That’s always it.

It sound so easy, but when you prioritize mental wellbeing like I do, the other stuff doesn’t seem as important. A boy is asking me to come to his room right now to drink champagne. Is that a good decision? I”m not sure but I’m going to do it anyways.

I know it’s not smart, but I just want to be with someone that listens to me, even if they’re just pretending. I know this isn’t the healthy thing to do.

Raindrops keep falling on my keyboard. I’m sitting outside. The air is fresh and crisp. I’m lighting another cigarette. Why? Maybe I want the nicotine to rush through my veins, or maybe I just want to distract myself from everything that”s nagging my brain. I don’t know anymore. A girl just walked past me that lives on my hall. She didn’t say hi. I think the fact that I’m smoking cigarettes scared her away…..I”ve created a negative stigma for myself.

I’m not surprised.

I think I’d judge me too.

I’m supposed to be more awake right now…..he should be texting me any minute to come drink champagne with him. But I’m already drunk, and deep in my thoughts. FUPO (the Furman police) just pulled up and left. I guess they don’t really enforce the 20ft. rule anymore.

 

Habits

“Habits are the invisible architecture of daily life. We repeat about 40% of our behavior almost daily, so our habits shape our existence, and our future. If we change our habits, we change our lives.”

My habits. I’ve allowed them to dictate my life. It’s funny because it’s all up to me. I’m the one responsible for my own misery.

I’m stressed out about school:  I can sit down and study

I’m unhappy with my body: I can run in the mornings and never miss a sunrise

I’m always tired: I can go to sleep so that I can wake up well rested and refreshed

I have no respect for myself: I can surround myself with people that see my worth

My brain chemicals are fucked up: I can take my medicine every day to maintain some kind of stability

I don’t feel like I’m intelligent: I can be attentive in class and allow myself to absorb information. I can read in my free time to expand my mental horizons.

I want to be like everyone else: I can complete my goals–change my routines so I don’t feel like I have to accept my own discontent with myself.

Why does it sound so easy?

He saw me. And God, it was painful.

I see you.

The grass and the groaning trees and the wide deep ocean

of  the  night  that  belongs  to us  and  we to it and the

stars  swimming silent  and  the gentle  sleeping moon

and the nearness of  you  lying  here in the  earth  with

me.

(You explain to me the groaning of the trees, lessons your

father   taught  you  that   his father  taught  him.  Your

father knew the voices of the birds. You mother was a

friend of the moon. You  were born  near the trees and

they created you.)

The warmth of your body pressed near to mine.

(Your fingertips make a map of my flesh, my skin, hands

arms face mouth ears, the roughness and the edges of

me.)

The healing hum of your naked voice.

(I forget  myself in the  folds of the night and in the warm

wild words rising eager from the depths of you.)

The  subtle movement of your  soul free here to touch  its

own skin.

. . .

We will leave this grass and walk out resurrected beneath

our sky  and our stars and our moon.  I will  hold your

hand in mine and talk recklessly of tomorrows.

We will  leave our questions  and  our stories  lying  limp

between the blades of grass.

We will whisper new questions and new stories under the

dome of new nights.

We will always belong to the night and the grass.

. . .

Soon we will sit  beneath a streetlamp in the cold and the

concrete and your eyes will carve  confusion  into  the

cracks of my tired flesh.

I will hold you  and  my  dilapidated brain will  convulse

beneath the electric shock of these new secrets.
I will hold  you and  hope your  wounds  melt into  blank

empty spaces in this warmth.

I will  hold  you and hope you will  hear my  silence  and

know its meaning.

I will  hold you and  hope you  will learn to love and live

in the truest parts of you.

I will hold you and hope that none ever hold you who are

not   worthy  of  the  largeness  of  your  soul,  do  not

respect its  worth,  who do not call it quietly into wide

open fields in which it can sing and dance and be free.

I will let go.

                                       . . .

You will carry the map of me the rest of your life.