writings!: salamander in the rain

she’s crying and it’s raining but i can’t tell the difference between her tears and the sky’s. it’s hard to picture but there’s concrete under our feet and we’re a tiny bit tipsy from the beer we snuck

i don’t know why she’s crying but our pajamas are getting wet and it’s cold. it’s the middle of the night. everyone is asleep. her back patio is flooded. she sniffs.

i tell her i’m sorry, again, and she says it’s not my fault, and i don’t know what ‘it’ is and she’s killing me because every time she touches me i get a jolt of 3AM and sleepless

she’s a ride or die but she’s closer to dying

there’s twig on the ground (why are we even out here what are we doing) but on closer inspection (who the fuck investigates a twig) it’s a salamander. it’s small and very dark brown. it’s drowning. this i know from my mother. she once said something about amphibians breathing through their skin

my feet are freezing and i tell her to get a leaf to save it but she doesn’t

i don’t think amphibians breathe through their skin, either. maybe that’s just worms. fifth grade biology bleeds together and it’s hard to remember one lesson from another, one day from another, god i wish i kept a diary–

i walk over to the bush nearest bush. get a leaf. rip it off. the rain is much to loud to hear it scream.

pick up the salamander with it. it doesn’t want to. it’s slow, stub legs barely moving. maybe it doesn’t want to live. maybe it’s too tired. maybe i should just let it drown. maybe i should just let her drown.

my sweatpants are soaked. so are my feet. i don’t have a change of clothes. what am i even doing

she’s just standing there her face glittering like some kind of terrified diva

the salamander is on the leaf. stub legs not moving anymore. it’s probably in shock or something. i rise and walk back to the bush, tuck the salamander and the leaf under it so it has some shelter.

we should go, i hear myself saying to her, back inside, you need some sleep. sleep my ass, she says silently, still staring out at nothing, you know i can’t sleep.

i know, i know

we go back inside, anyway.


writings!: ode to kyra


brown hair in the sun shines red-gold flute playing witch notes rising higher meets the sun

too smart for her own good

too insecure to feel good


winged eyeliner doesn’t smudge anymore. sparkling eyes with sparklier eyeshadow


swing dancing rag doll. words fall out of fingers. too hard on herself. projects anger onto people like a whiteboard


pillow festers with tears.

tea tree oil on everything hugs to feel like she’s worth something somehow the always the object of creepy older guys befriends the wild for thrills ride or die whirling arms and golden face tries too hard dies too hard too much to live for in too little time

invalidation is her achilles heel, but she will insist it’s everyone’s.