Twist all of my words

Like the roots of that old oak

Dead and without love

Another book has come and gone and the indent in my tired chair where I have sat for so long lingers. Fingers flick like wind through the pages on a blustery day and my eyes are like the ancients on their chariots, madly dashing through the words until the end of their majestic parade. My hands appreciate the rest from a long, hard read; my legs are numb with not nearly enough repositions during the lengthy chapters.

Anticlimactically, I rise and yawn deeply, nestling the sleepy book back with it’s family on my bookshelf, and I, too, crawl in my bed for a restful nap.

I want to roam those purple mountain majesties with you.

But tell me once more in that swanky little dress of yours how it feels to want to die. To take the largest boulder you can lift with your frail little arms and smash your own head open. To swim as far as you can until the waves finally swallow your heaving little body. To chug cyanide and hope it washes down your sore little esophagus quickly.

Rehash each plan in detail, all in that innocent little voice of yours. I’m all ears, but darling, oh darling, as I hold you close to my trembling chest, I know it’s too late. You won’t say anything anymore. And it all happened in that swanky little dress of yours.

Crack open my skull and pick through my brains. Report back to me when you have amassed it and divulge my secrets. Tell me what you found in there because I sure as hell can’t comprehend.

Sometimes I think my eyes will devour an entire city in one glance. There’s nothing better than stealing scenery; my eyes looting every nook and cranny I can, pickpocketing the birds in the trees, swallowing the falling rain. Is that a crime? Can you put me away for that? Breathing whiskey fireballs down at the local pub, O’Reilley’s, I shoot as many shots as my throat can bear, each time the pain dulls from the numbness. The bartender cuts me off after fifteen, was it fifteen? Twenty? That’s probably why he cut me off. I confess my sins on a bar napkin, soaked and dissolving from god knows what, probably the guy next to me’s drool. He has hit on me so many times tonight, I’m surprised I’m not bruised. I grab my eyeballs and roam back to my grimy apartment. It’s a lovely little shithole, it even came furnished with it’s own mold! How nice of them. My eyes have adjusted to life.

I just want to sleep naked with you in a hotel room somewhere in Hawaii, where we can sleep to the sounds of crashing waves and geckos gobbling up the insects on the glass window panes. Hawaii’s morning sun would wake us and we would go sailing, or go lie in a hammock on a private beach somewhere, drinking fruity drinks out of big coconuts.

Infinite sunny days on this earth can never equate to his radiant smile.

There is nothing better than the inside of his hand, all the creases from years of hard work, occupying the spaces in between my nimble fingers.

Mind like a fox, I love trying to keep up with all his artful quips, each word I devour.

My ultimate flotation device in case of quick getaways.

I want nothing more than to travel the world with him.

“I’ll drink my way into a successful story!” said every writer, ever.

May be because it’s too hot to sleep. The humidity sprinkles down in little bits of pressure on top of my head, settling into each and every one of my bones. It makes me ache in slumber. I awoke after only four hours of being down. Luckily it’s early morning, so I can pull it off as a new day. It’s a new day, right?

His kisses are as soft as the inside of a kitten’s ear.

Every time I think of you, my body becomes a cliche, inside and out.

1. If I was born a boy, my mom was going to name me either Austin or Aidan. My mom had Amanda and Ariel narrowed down for girl names, my sister pressing for Ariel. My mom finally decided my name would be Amanda, and it made my sister so upset, that my mom let her appoint me a middle name. Her middle name is Christine, so she declared my middle name Christi. (Sidenote: My sister is now twenty-five and six months pregnant with her first child. His name is going to Christian).
2. Ever since I was six, my grandparents and parents let me have a glass of red wine with dinner every night.
3. There are honestly several things that I am self-conscious about, but I think the thing I am the most picky about is my eyebrows and teeth. I am constantly hyper-aware of how my eyebrows look and if my teeth are white enough to fit my standards.
4. I am terribly afraid to be away from the ocean for too long. I get mopey and awfully uneasy. I can’t rationally explain the feeling that wells up inside of me. It’s an odd occurrence, but I just know that if I ever am without it, I feel lost.
5. I guess I’ll pair this one together with the one above it, just because it’s quite coincidental. I have a few recurring nightmares that have spanned for as long back as I can remember, but one that has been most prevalent and woke me from the deepest of sleeps is one about tsunamis. Or rather, tsunami type waves. It’s usually a different beach each dream, always a different situation, different people I’m with, different everything, but it usually ends in a huge tidal wave, or a succession of these monstrous waves. I have never experienced a tsunami in real life, so it’s odd that I’m feeling this fear equated with the occurrence. 

I used to think that being sad fueled so much of my writing, but now that I am happy, I feel like the sun shines out of anything I write’s butthole.

I cherished being sad, just for the pure excelerant it provided me. I always wanted to be alone in my thoughts, I didn’t need human interaction because nothing I said was spoken with any inkling of hope; nothing was concordant with the facts. I scrawled down my heart sores, picking at old scabs with each word I banged out. There was something about the ripeness that appealed to me, perhaps too much. Soft gums in the mouth of an avid smoker, irritate them too much and they bleed.

No, I have not tried the pasta in Italy, and no, I do not know how deep Alice traveled down that rabbit hole that one fateful day, but somehow, even without all these experiences I don’t carry under my belt, 

I feel the most alive I have ever felt. 

I don’t know what changed and I guess this would be one thing I could peacefully leave alone, not to be fed to the sharks that swim ominous spherical circles and prey on the lonely thoughts in my cortexes. It feels all good and well to be fashionably late to my own thoughts, to not be so in my head twenty-six and a half, seven. I’m not lost, I am simply taking life as it breezes in and it has made all the difference.

Trinkets hit the waves,

splashing until they are sunken treasures,

nestled into their new blustery blankets of sand.

A shark finds a nice leg to nibble,

the crabs feast on the left hand, fighting over fingers,

and Mr. Eel even peeks out to gobble a shiny necklace up whole.

It’s survival of the fittest and the ocean is no place for the weak.