yellowing
the bruises are fading. the one on my face was the worst. in my classes, i could feel the eyes. but of course nobody would mention it. and the circular bite mark, edged with teeth. it feels rough under my fingers. i'm a mess right now. i almost tumbled down 5 flights of stairs on my knees last night. i didn't go to his gig because i couldn't face it. and his music isn't great. dolipraaaayne. it's fucking doliprane. you don't even pronounce it correctly.
but anyway. up up up. last night was a picnic by the canal st martin with my new favourite people. hummous and bread and carrot sticks and cherries and strawberries and biscuits with poppy seeds. two people threw themselves off the bridge into the same water i'm scared to dip a toe into. cheers rippled along the canal. the heat made my skin itch. on to a party in a gallery. hype scene. live music in the middle. a stage set up in two halves and people milling past. endless wine. a freezer full of vodka. the police arrived to issue a fine for the noise and we left with our stolen bottles. a group of french people on chairs taken from the free stage by the marie du 3eme stopped us to tell us bad jokes. and spoke in worrying accurate approximations of english accents. after at irish singer songwriter's house we drank our stolen booze and had deep and meaningfuls by the open windows. listened and sang along to revolver. i watched people with a smile and wine in my glass. cd skipping from my bare feet on the bench.
and the boy from two weeks ago tagged along. made a best friend in adelin. they sat with red wine and biscuits and put the world to rights. then i declined the offer of the floor and walked home with him. we had a discussion until 6am about our many failed relationships.
stop sleeping with people you don't fancy, she says. good point. but if i sleep with the ones i do fancy, it all goes wrong anyway. so there's less to lose. and it's only sex.
but anyway. up up up. last night was a picnic by the canal st martin with my new favourite people. hummous and bread and carrot sticks and cherries and strawberries and biscuits with poppy seeds. two people threw themselves off the bridge into the same water i'm scared to dip a toe into. cheers rippled along the canal. the heat made my skin itch. on to a party in a gallery. hype scene. live music in the middle. a stage set up in two halves and people milling past. endless wine. a freezer full of vodka. the police arrived to issue a fine for the noise and we left with our stolen bottles. a group of french people on chairs taken from the free stage by the marie du 3eme stopped us to tell us bad jokes. and spoke in worrying accurate approximations of english accents. after at irish singer songwriter's house we drank our stolen booze and had deep and meaningfuls by the open windows. listened and sang along to revolver. i watched people with a smile and wine in my glass. cd skipping from my bare feet on the bench.
and the boy from two weeks ago tagged along. made a best friend in adelin. they sat with red wine and biscuits and put the world to rights. then i declined the offer of the floor and walked home with him. we had a discussion until 6am about our many failed relationships.
stop sleeping with people you don't fancy, she says. good point. but if i sleep with the ones i do fancy, it all goes wrong anyway. so there's less to lose. and it's only sex.