Rubber-rats - Crazy? I Was Crazy Once

my mom speaks spanish better when she's drunk.

she's said it herself.

you wouldn't hear it anymore, but it's clear, it's there, in the way that when she's not, she's uptight held together and healed over she's wrapped all up in twine and the t's are really soft and the r's are strong and she said that when shes drunk, real, real out of it, the words just fall

out

of

her

mouth

and she knows how to hold a conversation again,

and some kind of wall got torn down or

crumbled away and the next morning it scabs over again

and i wonder if she knows it, if those trills taste like good grades and whiskey or if theyre a blanket and an escape and a pinch of cinnamon and a heartbeat

i'd never know how it feels, either way. i quit watching those cartoons a little while after i started calling my tío by his name, and a long while before the slice of her dream she saw in me withered and died like her wedding flowers, before she bought plastic ones.

i never stopped tasting red ink in my blood, but sometimes in november it fades a bit and im made of candles

and bread

and marigolds

and pieces of a life i didnt know

but they dig into my pale palms anyway

and then, just as fast as it came, it's over again, and i forget my words, and i wonder if i'll move back to the southwest, go eat fresh bread and drink something icky, wonder if it's something charred and bleeding in my core and my mom's and her mom's made of whiskey and red ink and old love

i wonder if we'd all speak spanish better when we're drunk

Humanness by Angelina Zhogina

It’s insane knowing just how little of my day is spent NOT thinking of you, and figuring how little of your day is spent thinking about me..

what if i *remembers that making suicide jokes is not conducive with my goal of improving the wellbeing of myself and everyone around me* transform into an oyster

bones are melting

Not to be a slut but can I rest my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat?

I just love how sometimes when you search “art” in your phone’s photo roll (at least on iPhones), a few of your selfies show up. Like yes, you are art. I am art. The phone’s little code to sort your photos certainly thinks so. There’s something so sweet and gentle about that reminder and I find myself being just a tad kinder to myself when it happens.

want you to know i actually started crying at this post

i love life i love everyone everything is ok

I'm actually starting to like how I look in the mirror (: