citruscrumbs

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i tell myself that this is the way life goes. i honor the afterthoughts and acknowledge all that aches in the scenes that resurface. the stories that are written when i’m sober. in the scenes that ache when i remember, you are a part of me that’s acknowledged and will live in my words. i hope your cat is doing well. i hope the bobble head and the legos we built stays dusted and rooted in place. i hope you become a firefighter and life treats you well. you existed as a chapter and as songs for me in the couch of that dive bar and at aisle 7 in the grocery store when we packed vegetables and contemplated on dinner ingredients. there’s a lake by your house with the ducks that witnessed us at 12am and a spot in the highway that listened to us scream to a song in the car. may i let you go and may you regret the ending.

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maybe this is me grieving. i can barely spell the words but i remember you clearly. eagle drive and red lights. building your daughter‘s step stool. waking up next to you in the middle of the night. table fourteen. how it feels to kiss you in between words when my uber’s 10 minutes away and you’re holding me tight telling me to not go home. jens kuross and the song looping at the highway when you salute that damn flag and the moment i knew you were going to be a story.

the truth is in the bottle, and i’m five shots in and on a nicotine buzz but the high is telling me your name. i wish i could have loved you without having to hide it. i wish these words would spill out of me when i’m soberminded and reflecting more clearly, but all i can think of is kissing you goodnight and eating dinner with your daughter and you. the scenes of us loop and i’m in this limbo again.

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thinking abt them

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i need to file my taxes but all i can think of is that tuesday. 1am, atlanta mint, 60 degrees and shifting my weight back and forth. to the tips of my toes, then to the balls of my heels, and i’m wondering if you’re standing behind me. the song reaching the bridge, a nicotine buzz, and the orange streetlight in the most nostalgic shade of home.

ayahuasca plays and you’re standing beside me. i look at you and i want to hold your hand. you give me a smile, and good grief, you are beautiful. we’re shoulder to shoulder now, and your voice is this much closer. your neighbor’s tv is loud, the song’s past my favorite part, and softly, you speak. we look up at the trees, seeking some unknown. you smell like linen and aftershave, and when you laugh, a yearning is realized and it’s that i want to know you. god, i remember praying, let this be kind because i want to know the good and human of you.

i want to share the sheets and wake up with your cat nuzzled right in between us. i want to chop cilantro and dice onions while you start on the marinade. i want to catch up on the three years of stories you have of your daughter. i wanna share joys and burdens and make it through the good and bad and grow in what this may be.

there’s taxes to do and clothes to move to the drier. my alarm’s set for 8am, and it’s 2:19, but i’m hugging the sheets and counting down to tomorrow when this hour will pass with you beside me then.

if this is the prelude of you, may it be kind. may it be your face, and may it sound like your voice. may it last.

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it’s funny how much i write about love

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takahiro has a way of staying in the background. but it’s love, in the way that he’s just there. you’re in your world for what’s felt like forever, immersed in the flickers, mistaking the aftertaste with what you’ve tried to make true.

so you take a slow drag, tasting orange, keep the smoke in your lungs, then exhale. then you laugh in a grimace, because the sweetness after the fifth begins to taste artificial. it’s nauseating, you think. real orange doesn’t consistently taste this sweet, and you feel sick. but it’s one, the word for love has never had a face, and despite the heart your hands have given, you feel dirty.

takahiro watches the smoke swirl and stays still. he thinks of the oranges on the kitchen counter from last week and wonders why you haven’t even peeled one.

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good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

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literally though if you feel like your life is slipping through your fingers and every day goes too fast… try doing hard things, not just taking the easy route, like reading and making art and exercising and cooking a meal from scratch and journaling, doing these things without distraction, without being absorbed on a screen… the time will stretch and you’ll be reminded that life is long and beautiful if you make it so.

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2023 archive:

the words come out at the comedown of the nicotine these days. all we (i) know are the flickers. 4am, the streetlights peeking, the rosary in my closet, and you. they say poets immortalize love, so even if april was a flicker, i found a story in the crumbs of us. the way you said my name, the laugh between the kiss, blue strobes at the chorus of oye mujer, and my arms around your neck when you guided me to sway left and right. i wasn’t meant for this, and maybe all i was meant for was to witness you at 4am. the quiet moment of us, its whole life just words that begin and end—a narrative i’ll retell in different angles, depending if the nostalgia hurt that day or not. mi sol, mi rafael. i think that for a time, i loved you, even if i was never supposed to. i cannot take back the prayers i said at my hometown’s shrine when i blessed the rosary in your name, nor can i repurpose the heart i poured into it. i wish you well and i wish you love, always.

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a realistic sex fic where you've had a couple rounds already, where you end up dry as a desert and he can't get it up to save his life. and you're laying there, naked and laughing and still hopelessly desperate for each other. the whole room smells like sex, but every time he drags his fingers through your folds it feels like sandpaper, and his cock in your fist is limp and soft, so you cut your losses and order takeout, and drink some water and figure you can try again in the morning.

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baby nooooo attachmentssss 🥲

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there is a constant disconnect between love and i. we are sitting next to each other, the spaces always shared. we breathe the same air, move through the same motions, but i see love and you just see…me. to my father, i was a daughter in a city; my brother, a monthly three digit check; my first love, a presence in the afterthought. to you, hopefully more than just a name.

love as the poem and me, forever the poet. a lifetime of words, the same concept a realized craving, the face of love staring back at seven forty three AM. between the broken lies the disconnect, and i am pouring the words that have been lost in the mundane of the 2 years i clicked my pen shut.

two years later, it’s not hard to say “i,” anymore, because i as this version, exists in the present. i am this burst of a heartbeat at 20:44 sitting by the window of a coffee shop five minutes from home. i am pouring words in between the broken and grasping to connect with love. for it to be mine, and me to be something—to be someone’s. love is a remedy. an endless yearning. an oasis that feels like a mirage. a six year old seeking asylum in a father’s lie. a thirteen year old with bruises. a twenty year old and her tear soaked pillow sheets.

love is beside me and all around, and we constantly share a space, but there is the disconnect that mimics a boundary. they say you’re supposed to meet love halfway, but the shape of it shifts and it eludes me at the hint of my step.

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i am sorry, mama. i know you did your best but i turned out wrong. i only ever sharpen my teeth on my own legs. i can't hunt and every song in my chest sounds more like a siren call. i tremble at every loud noise. i fear i am unlovable. you used to tell me to bark back and bite hard. i let every hand muzzle me and consider it gentle. touchstarved. i'm sorry. you wanted to raise a wolf but i am just a bad dog.

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*cracks knuckles* fr it’s time

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Summer Berry Mix 🍓🫐 ♡⊹˚₊

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Farm animal sketches

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first light

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