improper grammar on purpose

I think the reason I feel so fucked up
is cigarettes.
As in I need them. Badly. That's a sign that I'm healing, or that I'm at least not in
excruciating pain.

But I feel really really out of it. Like my heart's on a plate. And like
I won't be able to sleep for a while, and like I want everything and want to write while I'm in this place, but words just...I'm so sick of them.

Does anyone but poets get sick of words?

Maybe all I can do since I'm at home away from my friends at school and still technically pretty sick is make a lot of playlists, which is sad cos it's not analog. And I'd like to think I'd light incense and breathe, or write for my zine
or make some poems but I can tell where that's gonna end up so maybe I'll just
read some Braidotti instead.

God I feel so fucked up. If I had a package of rolling tobacco and some wine, or a package of tobacco and some pills, or hell, even a pack of cigarettes---I'm sure I'd be in a better place. Sweet sweet nicotine.

the neverending story

So my mom and I were hugging this morning after breakfast cos she is, I think, getting wistful about me going back to school tomorrow. "You're not growing away from me, are you?" she asked. "No Mama," I said, "I'm just growing up." Goofy yeah, but you know. We're cozy people.

"You'll always be my little girl, though right?"

"Uhhh..." I replied, mushing my mouth into the shoulder of her bathrobe. "I'll always love you!"

"But you're not gonna become a boy--"

"Sure," I said, which is more or less the truth. My mouth full of dark green veloury terrycloth.