The Places We Belong

I sit on the roof of this apartment - where I am not allowed, losing myself in the ethereal stars. The smoke from the cigarette dangling from my lips, making shapes as it rises towards the heavens.

How I wish you were here with me to form poetry from the stars and stories in the smoke. The perfect scene- how picturesque.

However, quite lonely when I sit here reminded of how you would enjoy this aesthetic perch, snapping memories with your camera and scribbling in your notebook as much as I.

Your poetic thoughts - my inspiration as they always have been.

We must visit soon.

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The Grey

Why must people always have to be either good or bad? What if I was a good girl with bad tendencies or a bad girl who did good things? Must things always be placed in little boxes? What about those who do not fit into any box? What happens to them?

Slutty Grief

No matter how many guys i flirt with, talk to, or kiss you are always there in the back of my mind. I keep seeing your chocolate eyes, instead of the hazel ones I'm flirting with. I see your lips, rather than the ones I'm kissing. I see you no matter who I'm with. It's always you no matter who I convince myself I like- I love you. You're in my head, and I can't do anything about it. You're under my skin no matter how many times I deny it.

Living Art

I'm a fucking masterpiece with my chipped nail polish, pudgy tummy, touching thighs, unbrushed hair, smudged eyeliner, and faded lipstick. I may look a wreck, but that's just me. And I am a piece of art.

Rewriting The Stars

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