{ yesterday's tweets. }

( my milkshake brings all the tweets to the yard )

LoudTwitter, innit?

{ Ada Limón: Crush. }

Crush
by Ada Limón

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.

{ every day I bite my tongue. }

I'm about to go to sleep so naturally this is the best time to post. Here: have a meme. This is my current desktop; what's yours?

Currently I am listening to Brandi Carlile's My Song and am contemplating what to do tomorrow that will keep me out of everyone's way. I am also fuck behind on sending out the cards for the exchange and this makes me feel crappy. Trying to be better, guys.

Frank O'Hara is something else entirely. The end.