wet daydream fingers through your curls and i kissed you.

and again.

she chased me out of the house and he told me he wanted to check my bags for stolen items. all because you wanted to masturbate to a porno instead of making sure i was aware they were home. look what you've gotten us into, this mess of jumping onto and off of your bed isn't sacred anymore, it's an act of running away and telling my cousin no more television watching. don't even worry about excuses, i'll pack up two laptops and a pair of game controllers even though i don't know where they came from. i'll run and be somewhere i don't remember being. i'll sit in your yard and listen to songs that no one else understands. they'll tell me again and again that i'm not welcome. i'll tell myself again and again that i'm not welcome. i'll wake up frightened for the first time in a long while.

means of arrival are not known, but the production of a painting being judged in a contest is recalled. the painting is a play on time and movement: an ocean scenery blurred by ever-moving waves and an arched repitition of the sun sitting in the context of a hazy sky. In the middle of the ocean are a group of gumbo-like, uniform pink beings huddled together in a circle with their arms wrapped around one anothers' necks. standing at the horizon of the ocean are a group of gumbo-like, uniform orange beings. in your mind, you recite how you'll explain the meaning of the painting. The repitition of the sun and the ocean stay still as the orange and pink dance a beautiful battle amidst the haze. after the drowning and destruction of such gorgeous creatures, only one pink remains. the sole pink being twirls like a ballet dancer to the forefront of the painting and takes one last look at the view, then vanishes into the motionless, ever-moving sea.
you walk away from the painting to sit down in the crowd. yours, though, is being judged at that moment and you're not standing there. yours wins amongst the four being displayed, so you run to the front of the audience and wave, then go back to sit next to a girl, melinda.
melinda is quite embarrassing. as paintings are being shown, she yelps out a loud and obnoxious "owwww, owwww" that thunders around inside of the quiet room. you inch down into your seat.
melinda's painting, overall, wins the contest. hers is a depiction of an old, fat woman's face being stretched from the top right corner of the canvas to the bottom left corner of the canvas. "it is actually good", you think.
much later, after desperately searching for your painting in a house filled with convoluted hipsters attacking you without any tact whatsoever, you call a girl fat, "why don't you eat a donut" and then see a group of old, conservative parents break from the hipster crowd that tell you to leave. on the walk back home, you call melinda and tell her, "today feels like a dream".

we are ghosts!

A baby sitting in a high chair in front of a blue screen. imagine. watching from a television the weather is considerably fair with a slight chance of falling spaghetti from a tiny boy's hands. on stage, a mother's hand digs from behind the blue screen, reaching out for her child. for once, you finally see that weather can come between anything; rain drowning ants in an anthill and wind blowing birds adrift from their flocks. The mother cries, the boy eats, the weather goes on. I, on the other hand, am not seeing this; I am seeing blankets over my body and an orange tint lighting the blinds at the end of my bed. a phone rings and a news reporter speaks and it doesn't stop. they smother me with noise underneath my sheets.

who lied and told you this was all so important?