He makes that sound, 
the sound the sea makes, 
to calm me down.

Have you ever been 

so wildly attracted to someone 

you could feel it actually 

driving you 

insane?

I like guns and guns like me

coffee and cigarettes.

paz.

Suelo tocar fondo, salir a flote y volverte a buscar.

There is a strange phenomenon that is plaguing the 20-something generation. And, before the inevitable freak-out over yet another article about those poor, poor 20-somethings and their plethora of #firstworldproblems, let’s get serious for a second. We were born into a generation centered on an ever-expanding growth of technology. Where our parents were wearing each others letterman jackets and mailing love letters, we—yes, the rejected, sad, lonely 20-somethings—are exploring Tinder for “something casual” and staring wide-eyed at the ellipses on our iPhone screens, praying that what we just typed, thoroughly and totally without autocorrect’s help, doesn’t make us sound like the emotional wrecks that we actually are. Our generation needs to finally accept that we’re slightly dead inside. We’ve driven ourselves insane by a complete lack of real human interaction. Intimacy has become terrifying. Talking on the phone with another human being has become uncomfortable and foreign. We go out to dinner with friends, staring at our iPhones, waiting for that text, when we should be present in the moment. We shouldn’t be waiting for a reply to solidify our doubts about that guy/gal we met at the bar last week. We should be having conversations. We don’t know how to have conversations anymore, and isn’t that the most terrifying thing of all? We’ve become obsessed with the casual. We don’t want strings. We don’t want honesty. We want the temporary, the easy way in and the easiest way out. We want to have the greenest grass in the neighborhood, and if we see it starting to grow weeds and wither, best to get a new lawnmower. We want to have sex with as many different wildly attractive people that we can, and shake hands at the end of it. We want to be cool, distant, and unattainable. We decipher texts instead of feelings, we break-up via Instagram, and we don’t ever want to be the one at the losing end. The ultimate failure is being the one who loves the other too much, hell, even likes the other too much. Even worse, the rules of casual dating have become engrained in our society. The laws of communication have become almost irrevocably warped. We tell each other things like, don’t text someone first, you’re better than that. Get the upper hand at all costs, and for Christ’s sake, don’t tell someone you like them. Don’t tell them you love them; then they have all the power! And what will you have? Nothing tangible. And that’s the point we’re all missing. Relationships are not tangible, love isn’t something you taste or smell, love is not our sixth sense. But goddamn, can you feel love. Love takes you by the throat and disrupts your whole life. Love proves you wrong. It might even prove you right. Love humiliates you. A friend recently told me, “Love is agony.” And it is. Love is something we are so scared of, we throw away the beginnings of it, because it is just too serious, and our fragile, narcissistic egos can’t deal with the rejection. We haven’t let ourselves fall in love. In fact, we are starting to fall out of love with the rest of the human race. Life is not about waiting for something to happen. We are waiting for someone to do the unthinkable, to reject these rules, to fuck the hypothetical, emotionally crippled man that is looming above every text we send that has a typo, over every vaguely telling Facebook status we hope will impress our exes, and over every Instagram photo that didn’t get as many likes as we anticipated, and ask someone to dinner. And we can’t let anyone know we feel that way. We need to keep our shit in check. We need to care less. But, I propose that those rule-breaking, anarchist crazies are indeed still out there, hiding under a rock, where the shame of their fully-beating hearts aren’t on display for the rest of the robots. And they’ve almost given up. They’ve been burned and bruised, but aren’t quite broken. Let’s be those people, it’s not too late. Let’s refuse to believe that romanticism is dead and buried. So, this is for all the people who ever screamed that they loved someone at the top of their lungs. This is for the people who would tell someone that they’re magic, just so they knew. This is for the people in our generation who don’t like the casual, don’t want the casual, but the oh-so-scary, unexpected, beautiful, ridiculous feeling that comes from loving someone, from being loved. It’s for the people who still believe in love letters and letterman jackets, and the people who fucking call. This isn’t a death sentence for the casual age; it’s a signal to look up from the screens, to let your phone die once in a while, to make some really great eye contact. We still have hope, though. We’ll always have hope. That we’ll meet someone who shatters all those pre-dispositions, someone who makes us want to throw our cell phones into the river because we don’t want to miss a second of their presence. Someone that makes us want to break all those pesky little rules because they’re better than every one-night stand, every no-rules summer fling, better than those dick pics you’ve gotten used to, or all the people you thought you could change, and you’re going to want to look at them.

Y la vida siguió, 
como siguen las cosas que no tienen mucho sentido.

No puede ser
que estemos aquí
para no poder ser.

I'll fucking digest you,
one kiss at a time.
You wish I was yours, 
and I hope that you are mine.

Nunca tuve tanto miedo, es una lástima que no crea en algún dios.
Sé que vas a estar bien.

subir
bajar
o reaccionar

Maybe someday you'll be somewhere talking to me, as if you knew me, saying 'I'll be home for next year, darling. I'll be home for next year'. And maybe sometime, in a long time, you'll remember what I had said there, I said I'll be home for next year, darling, 'I'll be home for next year'.

I just wanna be yours.

No me quemes la cabeza si tu fuego ya no existe.

Attention Deficit Depression.

I get really sad sometimes.
When I get really sad I think about my two options:
1. Fake my own death
or
2. Cause my own death.
When I was 15 I would bang my head against a wall because I couldn't remember what the square root of math was. To me, Pi equaled 3.14 seconds of time it would take to eat an actual pie.
It equaled apples, peaches, pumpkin, chicken pot pie, cutie pie, pie hole, bye bye Miss American - pie.
It made zero sense to a zero like me.
If I am greater than X, than Y did we break up?
"Just solve the equation!" the teacher cries.
And I try to think in digits but instead, it turns into
The number of nights we ran into the ocean, screaming.
The number of times I fell in love with boys.
The number of times I fell in love with girls.
The number of times we fell into each others arms, with our chins on each other's left shoulders "because" she said, "that way our hearts can touch".
The number of seconds it took for our blazing bodies to collapse onto grass, or sand, or mattress.
Fingers in mouths, fingers in noses, fingers in toasters, fingers inside everything but text books.
The number of days he stopped looking into my eyes.
The number of times my parents were "disappointed" in my behavior.
The number of pills I took to stop banging my head against the wall because I was so sad about numbers.
About a year and half ago, I got really sad again.
People on the internet "hurt my feelings" and I let them.
While my "friends" IRL were out feasting with kings, I was left alone, a knight in a cave, knees shaking.
I always thought I was sad about numbers, but now words?
Out of nowhere, this shrewd oppressor, Billy Bully, reaches out from my monitor and sucker-punches me right in the jaw. He then grabs me by the collar of my shirt and says "listen to me, girl. you're dirt."
As it turns out, the negativity has a face, and in that moment it was my own twisted grimace.
I had been gazing into a mirror of contempt and insecurity that became valid because I heard things like
"I just wanna bend her over my lap like the slut she is.
That girl sounds a lot better on mute.
She's getting so fat.
This girl is dumb.
Get a nose job,
get a boob job,
get a better job.
Kill yourself."
Kill yourself...
They say sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you.
Well, that's not true.
Words are what made me pick up a knife, and I held it to my throat in a moment of weakness.
And I imagined those faceless people, the ones that were tearing me to shreds, and I thought 'Who hurt them this badly?' This was never even about me! Why are we all so nauseatingly affected?
When the knife falls to the floor, barely missing my bare feet, I blow kisses to my reflection, because all I'm missing is balance.
Instead of reaching for something to hurt me, I reach for something to help me, and sometimes,
pills do because maybe some of us are wired differently,
I refuse to hide my sadness,
I'll wear it as a badge of courage in my fight for happiness,
and it's okay if a Prozac a day keeps the monsters at bay
because when I'm sitting alone at a coffee shop and I look up from my book,
I think, 'wow, this is what normal feels like'. 
Words, both callous or cordial, are just words. 
And, you know, numbers aren't so bad either! 
Like the number of times he simultaneously held my hand and the steering wheel. 
The number of times my parents told me how proud they are of the woman I've become. 
The number of laughs my sister and I shared as we ate pie straight out of the garbage can at 1am. 
"So, what's the problem?" the universe asks. 
I reply with this: "The left side of my brain departed from the station traveling at a speed of 65 miles per hour. Later, The right side of my brain departed from the station traveling in the opposite direction of the left, it was going 75 miles per hour. After the left side had traveled for one thousand seven hundred and eighty days, it was only a few miles away from the right side. 
How long did it take for both sides of my brain to man up and get back on those pills?"
The answer? 
Asking "are we there yet?" when we hadn't even left the driveway.

the nbhd.

Any other day, I would call, you would say, "Baby, how's your day?" But today, ain't the same. Every other word is "uh-huh," "yeah, okay", could it be that you are at the crib with another lady? And if you took it there, first of all, let me say I am not the one to sit around and be played, so prove yourself to me, I'm the one that you claim. Why don't you say the things you said to me yesterday? I won't let you say I'm assuming things. If something's going down, that's the way it seems. It shouldn't be the reason why you actin' strange, nobody's holding you back from me. 'Cause I know how you usually do when you say everything to me times two. Why can't you just tell the truth? If somebody's there, then tell me who. Say my name, say my name, if no one is around you, say "Baby, I love you", if you ain't runnin' game. Say my name, say my name, you actin' kinda shady, ain't calling me baby. Why the sudden change? 

And there's no map. 

And a compass wouldn't help at all.

haters, 
fakers, 
mass manipulators.

And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one, 
'cause most of us are bitter over someone. 
Setting fire to our insides for fun, 
to distract our hearts from ever missing them. 
But I'm forever missing him.

But I crumble completely when you cry.
It seems like once again you've had to greet me with goodbye,
I am always just about to go and spoil the surprise,
take my hands off of your eyes too soon.

I'm a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl. 
You're the bird on the brim, hypnotized by the whirl.
Drink me, make me feel real. 
Wet your beak in the stream.

Yo me quería quedar en tu espalda. 

Y que no se haga de día 

nunca más.

Ignore life if you want to, babe.
Do what you've got to do.

You make me runaway, angel.

Down on the West Coast, they got a saying; 'if you're not drinking, then you're not playing'. But you've got the music, you've got the music in you, don't you? Down on the West Coast, I get this feeling like it all could happen, that's why I'm leaving you for the moment, Boy blue. It's getting harder to show it, I'm feeling hot to the touch. You say you miss me, and I always say I miss you so much, but something keeps me really quiet. I’m alive, I’m a lush, your love, your love, your love... I can see my baby swinging, his parliament is on fire when his hands are up on the balcony and I'm singing, baby, I'm in love. I can see my sweet boy swinging. He's crazy and Cubano call my only love. On the balcony, and I'm singing, move baby, move baby, I’m in love. Down on the west coast, they got their icons, their silver starlights, their queens and cyclones, and you got the music, you got the music in you, don't you? Down on the west coast, they love their movies, their golden cars and rock-n-roll groupies and you got the music, you got the music in you, don't you? You push me harder for the way, I’m feeling hotter than fire. I guess that no one ever really made me feel I’m a child. Didn’t say you gotta know, boy it's you I desire, your love, your love, your love... I can see my baby swinging, his parliament is on fire when his hands are up on the balcony, and I'm singing, move baby, move baby, I’m in love. 

plansandwishes.

Trabajar como bartender en un bar conocido, en lo posible dentro de un hotel.
Ahorrar, irme a vivir sola a un departamentito.
Seguir trabajando, y estudiar algo que me guste, si me da el tiempo.
Irme a vivir uno o dos años a Vancouver o alguna parte de Inglaterra.
Volver, pedir un préstamo, abrir mi restobar vintage inglés.

LIVE FREE OR DIE.

Oh the boy's a slag, 
the best you ever had. 
The best you ever had 
is just a memory and those dreams. 
But as daft as they seem, 
as daft as they seemed, 
my love when you dream them up...

'Era tóxico, era tóxico, era tóxico...' sigo repitiendo, en un acto más bien desesperado de sacarlo de mi cabeza.
Era como si hubiera muerto. No tenia permitido hablarle, ni hablar de él, ni preguntar por él, porque yo misma me lo prohibía. No quería volver a salir lastimada gracias a comentarios ajenos sobre su nueva y 'sana' relación. Pero con un agregado; el dolor de ser consciente de que no fuimos suficiente el uno para el otro, a pesar de haberlo intentado tanto. De que el esfuerzo no alcanzó y los recuerdos que dejamos en el otro pasan a ser eso, solamente recuerdos en una infusión de melancolía.
Era como si yo hubiera muerto. Porque, si bien el último mes fue, sin exagerar, el más triste de mi existencia, lo quería de vuelta. Hubiera preferido seguir teniendo las cosas malas, las amarguras y los disgustos, solamente por poder tenerlo conmigo, saber que era mío, sentirlo mío, y de nadie más.
Me había vuelto adicta a él, sin saberlo.
Y era tóxico.

Congratulations on the mess you made of things.

Quedará para siempre tu mirada en mis ojos, 
aunque un día la tierra deje de girar.

Send me to the stars, tell me when I get there kid. 
I can be your Nancy, you can be my Sid, 
get into some trouble like our parents did. 
Hey, they'll never know.
If you love me hardcore, then don't walk away, 
it's a game boy, I don't wanna play, 
I just wanna be yours.
Tell me that you need me more and more everyday, 
like I always say, never let me go.
Just stay.

.

All the streets you're walking on, a thousand houses long, 
well that's where I belong
and you belong with me,
not swallowed in the sea.

.

.

You can do no wrong in my eyes.

You like your girls insane.

How can I sleep if I don't have dreams?
I just have nightmares.

The benefits of mood lighting.

"R U doing NE thing 2nite? U should come hang."
SEND.
And just like that, he’s here. 
He pulls out a bottle of wine from a backpack. It’s endearing until I remember he has a motorcycle and literally has to have a backpack if he ever wants to bring anything anywhere. Then I become envious as I picture him gliding back and forth through the cars that crawl at a dismal rate of barely, but he moves through a sea of angry fists pounding on steering wheels like a bird narrowly flits through power lines, and I realize that it’s almost the same thing as flying.  
He opens the bottle of wine with ease which makes me uneasy. 
I don’t know why, but men that open bottles of alcohol with ease terrify me. 
Maybe it’s because I used to watch my uncle open bottle after bottle as his body deteriorated from so much substance. But it’s in the same way (opening bottles) that one dresses their toothbrush with paste and polishes the pearls in their mouth to glossy mint perfection, and I’d think "why does my uncle find comfort in the flippant levity of becoming some unfunny clown version of himself?” 
It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized you could escape the self-loathing and sadness with substance. It’s great for a while until you realize that you’ve gone missing and you send out a search team of soul-sniffing bloodhounds that hunt through a forest of pills and casual sex, only to return with nothing. It’s exhausting, and not just for the pups. 
Anyway, he pours the wine… 
We are a whole bottle in. 
Our mouths are stained purple like children that have sucked down too many grape popsicles and look down in shame as their mother, hands on her hips, holds up the empty box. 
Guilty is what we are. 
"Got anymore wine?" He asks. 
The truth is, I never have wine. I don’t like the fact that wine seems to be the universal social adult beverage, so no, I don’t have wine. 
I drink whiskey. 
I drink whiskey because I can literally feel it warm my heart, and God bless that feeling! 
But no. No more alcohol. 
I want him to leave so I don’t make bad choices. 
We’ve already read poetry out loud all night, and if that hasn’t turned me on already (it definitely has), then more alcohol most certainly will. 
I offer an alternative, pot, thinking he’ll say no. 
He doesn’t say no. 
We smoke pot together and talk about dragons as the smoke blows through his nostrils. 
The lemonade that we’re drinking rinses away the purple from our mouths, but not the guilt. That’s still there.
Yes mom, I ate all the goddamn popsicles and I’m sorry, okay?! 
We are stoned now, so I do the most cliche thing ever and put Fleetwood Mac on in the record player.
Monday Morning comes on and it’s perfect. 
It’s so perfect that I don’t feel guilty anymore. 
We lay on the floor, and it’s so cliche, it’s so cliche that it’s clichA, B, and C. 
I switch on my light-up Jesus from Party City because getting stoned has become a religious practice for me at this point. We watch the ceiling light pulse to music even though it really isn’t pulsing to any particular beat because it’s a plastic piece of shit. Then Rhiannon comes on. I tell him it’s the song I’m named after, which is true. No, my name isn’t Rhiannon, but both of parents thought Fleetwood Mac sang "Breeeeeeeannnnnna" instead of "Rhiannnnnnonnnnn". The Bree"anna" was then changed to Bree”ana” because “why the hell not?”
He laughs at my story and then stops short. 
"What are we doing?" He asks. 
I’m glad he asks this because I’ve been thinking the same thing all night but I’m not really sure. 
I do know that it may have something to do with the type of loneliness that most people try to face but bow out after five minutes because being alone with your own terrible self is truly awful sometimes. 
We are both in a place of un-want. It’s the worst. 
He was in a toxic relationship, and I was about to start a toxic one but backed out at the very last second (I’ve already begun patting myself on the back for that one). 
Anyway, “what are we doing?” "I don’t know" is my common response to any heavy question. 
Lets just relax and not give each other a chance or reason to hurt one another. Sound good? 
I didn’t say that of course. 
What I did say was: "I don’t know. I guess we’re hanging out and having fun." 
"I don’t want to ruin this." He says. 
"Ruin what?" I ask. 
"Isn’t that what people are supposed to say? I don’t want to ruin this friendship?" 
He looks concerned and I shrug. I kind of assumed that this wasn’t an actual friendship. We would sleep together a few times and then realize that we should cut it short for both of our sakes. 
But he is my friend. I like him. He listens. 
"I can’t be in a relationship right now." He says. 
Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Cowboy! 
"I don’t want to be in a relationship." I say. 
Then I begin to wonder why he felt the need to make that so abundantly clear. What vibe am I giving off? What action or statement have I made to cause such a confession? This isn’t the first time that I’ve had this nugget shoved in my face. It’s an unfair thing to say to somebody so early on. 
How could you assume I’d spend one quiet evening alone with you, and then want to jump into your life? 
I don’t. I really, really, really, really don’t. 
Then I realized that it isn’t him. 
It isn’t me either. 
Its never me (although, I’d probably fuck it up in some other way down the line), this comes from my current lover’s past lovers and their giant expectations. How I hate these strangers for ruining it for the rest of us! 
I wanted to shake him, I wanted to shake all of my random lovers at that moment, and scream "I EXPECT NOTHING BUT FUN FROM YOU!" 
Then there comes a moment of silence, which, in my head, I dedicate to all relationships everywhere. 
Stevie Nicks interrupts this silence which then forces us into each other’s arms. 
Damn you, Stevie! 
As our lips explore each others faces and necks, I can’t help but think about my parents. 
Did they smoke pot in the early 80’s and make out to Fleetwood Mac? Did they listen to Rhiannon and think “hey, I’m gonna name my future child some variation of that weird-ass name”? It’s crazy because knowing that I was named after that song has made me shape my life around this woman. I’m totally a Rhiannon, and making out on my living room floor while the Jesus figurine switches from green, to red, to blue, it feels right all of a sudden, because that’s the benefit of mood lighting!
I ring like a bell in the night and wouldn’t you love to love me? 
Boy. 
Boy in the middle of my living room. 
Beautiful boy, wouldn’t you love to love me right now? 
Love me more than I love myself, it’ll be easy, I promise. 
And he’s saying all the right things to me and I decide that I want to say all the right things to his body. 
So I do. 
There’s always that moment after a late night of debauchery where you ask yourself "should I stay or should I leave?" I can see him asking himself that very question. 
He turns to me and says “I should probably get going, huh?” 
(As if its even a question, we both know he’s leaving). 
"We’ve both got work in the morning, so that’s probably best." 
He then speeds off on his motorcycle. He takes off like a cannon, loud and angry, headed toward the intersection. 
I’m jealous again. 
He gets to fly away on that bike of his. 
He gets the fresh night air to wash away the impurities. 
I get to go back inside and be alone with what just happened.
It’s completely unfair. 
I go back inside and examine the empty mason jars that are stained purple from the wine and I think to myself: 
Would he have stayed if I promised him heaven? 
And also, 
will either one of us ever win?

.

Baby be the class clown, I'll be the beauty queen in tears.

It's a new art form showing people how little we care.

Now is good.

Spring,
a long train journey,
a peacock,
bed-in breakfast,
a joint bank account,
listening to you snore for years and years,
to go to a parents meeting even though our kid is a genius;
actually, all three of our kids:
Justin, Marilyn and Daisy.
Being with you,
being with you,
being with you...
Just being with you.

And I like you.
I love these roads where the houses don't change (and I like you) 
Where we can talk like there's something to say (and I like you) 
I'm glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you) 
We move in the tree streets 
I'd like it if you stayed.

people are jerks 










.

Dorothy was right though.

But if it’s true you’re gonna run away, tell me where, 
I’ll meet you there.

Oh, momentary sinergy.

Watching his exit is like falling off the ferry in the night.

Handsome and faceless, 
and weightless your imagination runs.

There's no one here to police me, 
I'm sinking in until you return.