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a note to self her

Or, a poem about splitting and the death that comes with it

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Raw as fuck line honestly

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scary girl September, offputting girl October, nightmare girl November, dead girl December

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I love when painters are just like yeah my arts gonna just be all beautiful girls like I understand them

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what’s the pink they put in pink lemonade that makes it so poppin

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“How many thousands have I spent on perfume and alcohol, cigarettes and Turkish baths, disappointing trips and third-class movies; how many months in silent bars or parks, expecting, in a chair with a book not reading, or waiting in line, waiting in line? Who will tell me it’s a loss when I know life must be for pleasure? The parks were balanced by museums, the baths by oceans, bars by composition, and the dreaming chair by books finished. Nothing is waste that makes a memory.”

—   Ned Rorem, The Paris Diary & The New York Diary: 1951-1961    

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L. V., excerpts from the epilogue

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⭐️

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last night

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tuesday

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wednesday!!