Pulling this out of me only because I would be sorry if I didn’t.

Made my way home from Liverpool Street station today on foot, Harvest accompanying me because it makes me see faces I don’t want to forget, though I know I will in this city a hundred thousand times bigger than the rivertown I left. When I go to sleep at night it’s your jaw that comes to me, the bone of your cheek. But I’m not sad, and I’m not lonely. I’m buying figs at the greengrocer, the one with the vinyl flooring covered in bright fruits and veg, fading somehow into ocean in the back of the shop. (That makes sense, but won’t to you until I photograph it). I’m running along the canal, I’m weaving my way through the flower market, I’m emerging pink and sweating from the underground into sunlight and feeling just fine. It’s the shape of your skull that comes into my palm when I let my mind unfocus, practicing my commute. It’s the crows’ feet, it’s the soft blonde, it’s the muscles in your back that unravel me, still, the grip of the tips of my fingers on your right arm as you point lefthanded to the pieces of the city you made with your broken bones. It’s the gifts I want to give you. The yelling across ocean and continent for you. It’s the shock of myself staggered and firm and drawing in air. It’s all I wanted and more and the getting and the going and the things I can’t write yet (not tender, but Tender still). All of that in the rush of this place that opens up CEASELESS, each corner a turn into a void made startlingly, agonizingly beautiful by the corner beyond it: staring into it, being stared into; washing through it and also being washed through. Destroyed, unloved, dirty. Magnificent, restless place. 

🚨 Fuckable Christ Alert 🚨




Shoreditch turns out to be about a mile down the road: thank goodness for whiskey in the Old Station, in the Crown and Soldier (a name I just made up for a place with brick on the inside of it!), in Paper Doll, in the paint and stain of bar after bar. Thank goodness for old friends. Thank goodness for beautiful men with their menacing smiles. Thank goodness for Nick and for Martin and for Peter, asleep in his chair. Thank goodness for the Queen’s face on the cold hard cash, and for the humidity, and for the rasp in my voice after so much talking over crowds. 


Jesus Christ this city is loud! Everything you expected: all that jocular drama of yelling on the street, languages I can’t even name. Been an idiot in front of more people in the past 24 hours than the past 4 months collectively, and that feels fucking FANTASTIC. This morning when I woke up there were five Danes in the apartment and they all broke seamless into English when I came into the kitchen. Last night when I woke up in the middle of it to lie awake there was lightning and thunder and that felt good. That felt better than I am willing to admit to you. That felt, selfishly, like a welcome. When I got off the plane I IMMEDIATELY went underground. When was the last time I was underground? June 13th. The air here is DRIPPING with moisture. I still want everything. I can’t write it down fast enough. 



Posting this again, this time for [Redacted], who will know it when he sees it.

(Source: heymelissa)

Tonight I am writing to you from out on the lawn. The air here is something I need- and I’m soaking it in. Tomorrow morning I will run, and zip up the duffel, and board the plane. I am already bored of the plane. I am already bored of the pale, spindly boys who can’t start a fire, let alone put one out. The wind is cool, and fresh, and every so often the sky is illuminated to the south by a bright flash. The thunder comes later. I am the thunder. I’m not fucking around. 

The fishermen at the bar think they are shocking, but they don’t know me. I drink whiskey and watch the St. Louis pitcher throw to win. I love America so much that I would have it, all of it, tattooed on my back in a heartbeat. I never want to forget the sky here. I never want to stop biking down past Jeffers and back through it again. I want to laugh in the darkness at M and at N and at L: laugh like my heart is bursting, and it is. I want Straw-ber-ita and Bulleit and the mice running up my leg. I want LAZ, sitting on the carpet, watching Blake Shelton live life through a surrogate, and screaming panicked to me at midnight. I want Russian olive, the squeeze of leg flesh, the fresh hay across the road at the Clarks’. I want the mountains, inside of me, and on top of me, and in all directions, and inside my skin. 

I give you Wade Lake. I give you the headgate. I give you the pivot and the soak on the road. I give you Excelsior Geyser Crater, and the call of the cow. 

You think you have to mean something that you don’t. The rest of the valley is asleep or driving by. I want you in the sick turn of me. I want you in the moment before I go. I want you sober and thick and smiling. I want to leave you: and that is a gift that I give to you and also to myself. Startling Yes among the gnats and the among the grass. Startling Yes on the lawn. Startling Yes of bags packed and me, WIRED, on the road. Me, WIRED, burning hotter than you can ever know. Outside Nevada City you think you can’t get what you need here. Outside Nevada city I know I’d give you the sweet pool of me on your belly. Outside Nevada city I know I’d cleave, and finally. 

Arrive and watch me in the thick of the picnic table. Arrive and let me follow through. 

Very important friendship conversation.

What we learned today, about our bodies growing for Yes! under the big sky
Riding our bikes down the jack creek road and needing it: talking to the dirt. I’m dreaming up! I lived about No for 18 months: got back to the place where I owned it, slow and painful- back to a place where it belonged to me, where it didn’t sting in me, didn’t halt me breathless.

Then I said Yes to the city, suddenly, the loss of it startling. I found things to lose and I let them take root in my sternum, said Yes to them without thought: yes to el farrolito, yes to dolores park, yes to twin peaks, yes to the climb up russian hill to get to the yes of whiskey in the apartment where I said yes to dancing and needed it too. All of that Yes I held onto, and loved, and felt growing in the part of my body where light never reaches. Thick stems and thorns of yes on the meat of my heart. 

And then I said yes to C (and to others, and their riotous scar tissue) and THEN I poured yes from inside of me: yes to the ink stain, yes to the thought of never seeing you again, yes to yellowstone and yes to the keeping myself up writing: thick, and slow, and meaningless; words pushed out by force. Yes to the sky at night, pinpricked and edgeless. Yes to the numbing of fingers and of feet. Yes to the saying of useless Yes to you, and to letting you think you know me though you never will. Yes to the Never Will. Yes to the bottomless spill of my heart. Yes to the MESS and to the tangle and to the fight fought out of me. Yes to you pulling your head back away from mine. Yes to your shoulder and yes to Harvest and yes to places I cannot go. Yes to a yes that’s lost meaning and still holds me upright. Yes into the apartment on Otis, where I am stripped and alive in my skin. Yes to the apartment on Otis where I am forced out, microcosm and true. Yes to this “blog post.” Yes against all the narrative truth, yes against rock, yes against madison range: close-fisted, selfish, drunk on it I yell Yes.

And with it the heart-rise for [Redacted] (as opposed to -Sink.) And with it the warmth, and the curl. And with it the knowing of No. [Redacted]: gorgeous, gratuitous loss. [Redacted]: shed of skin. 

This is just to say that padialogue is my literal soul mate and also that in this analogy I’m 100% Haley

Bring me back across state lines, singing in a white Saturn all the songs I can remember the words to. I watched the bottom of the earth unfold itself in sick blue and grey and red: tumbling out from where it churns, and yelling toward the sky. All the light that reaches it- that’s what we witnessed, not touching, soaked in breathless sulfur and fists clenched. 


I keep myself awake by not loving you; by loving only the peaks; by loving only the soft unburned sagebrush and grass at the side of the highway. I keep myself awake with knowledge of Sugar Loaf and Beehive. With knowing they’ll be here when and if I find my way back. With [Redacted] it’s all about leaving: for now. For good. I balk at the idea of permanence, and, fittingly, soak myself in it.

I hate the act of taking my clothes off, hate the moment on my back when I’m alone in it. But gasp in the golden light of start of sundown coming in the narrow window. There have been moments (elsewhere) where I’ve been lighted from the inside out, sparked inexplicably into need and push and crystalized certainty. But in the apartment on Otis I’ll take the honeyed sun on your face at five o’clock. I’ll take the glow on my skin, and the biting your shoulder. I do hope that huge celestial bodies feel pain. 

Hello from the world’s most beautiful walk of shame

Sometimes it’s just a story. But I’ve been thinking about you today: your face and your slippery slope. I wanted to tell you, because you’ll  never know him- how his hands held me down, and how all of it ended in tears.  I wanted to tell you to watch the the life fall out of me. Like a paragraph given by fingers frozen in 29 degrees. I’ll hang onto you wordless as long as I can. This is so totally wrong. i really do fucking despair. A thought I’ve never given to anyone. Only distributed, empty and

I crack this beer because I know I need it: it grows and drips inside me. I felt a song - I was too drunk to sing it. I wanted to give myself the fluidity to let loose: I failed. I sat on the ridiculous couch and curled myself into it. It’s been so long since I wanted it. It’s been so long since I needed it. I held your body when you thought yours was holding mine. I’ll follow you: I’ll go where you go, and I’ll remind you that I’m stronger. ERIC: on the corner, in the hot bar, ERIC, knowing I needed him but smaller now. ERIC, thinking everything and not knowing. SAN FRANCISCO, opening up too slow. SAN FRANCISCO, quiet yell. 

In Montana I hold you underneath the skin, and with joint freeze I tell you I thought about Fall. I’d clamber for you, I’d let you do what you needed, I’d grasp at chin. I’D GAZE: Montana in September: did you know? I ran in 30 degrees. I ran into the north wind. I ran because I needed to know. You’re in the ditch, you’re in the snow, you’re in the Looking at Fan at 6 in the Evening and reckoning with her snow capped peaks. I blinded us because riding my bike was more than you knew, and less than I thought. I’d bury you. I’d take place. I am right now, currently, taking place. 

I couldn’t stand you, but only because it was clear you couldn’t have stood me (me at my best, me at the top of twin peaks you wouldn’t have kissed me, not the way A did, not only because you couldn’t stoke, but also because it would have disgusted you to watch us stoke each other- twin peaks my start, twin peaks the end, that endless roll of city the reason you had to leave.)

I worry I would have given C something he could use. I don’t know your face. I want to watch it, bold and ceaseless. I want to watch it fall. I let you know, only so that you don’t know: blame, and countless. Never ask for it. Do you like fur? On Otis I’m a mystery. You have until Midnight- you think you’re setting me up. I’ve been past midnight and I know it in the dark. I’ve been past midnight and I know it in the bottom of me. I’ve watched the sun rise. Once crying.  Once waiting. Once and perfect under flesh. I’ll pull because I have to: pull you out of wood, out of burn, out of joy. You think I’m sad (I let you think this, so many ways I gave you this.) But I’m just tangled up. Just riled up. Just putting my hands on all the joy I can here and calling it even.