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I think about where i live; the paint chipped walls, the stained carpets, the thrift shop furniture, the forever dirty bathroom and i cant help but feel sad. This house means so much to me. Not that I am particularily attatched to the house but what it means to me. and im going to have to say good bye to it soon, its a terrible house to live in. theres just so much thats happened in it that i will never be able to get back, stuff that means alot to me. stuff that im afraid ill forget.
I think of; late night dancing and knocking from neighbors to turn down the music on weeknights.
of many friends new, and old.
of drugs.
of feeling so sick i cant move.
of crying.
of blood on carpet, pools of blood in paper envelopes, blood in sinks and blood on sheets.
of razor blades in bath tubs and the people who left them there.
of bad art, and good art and art thats in between.
of skipping university to stay home all day, eating junk food, and watching dvds with tara.
of my first night here.
of string mazes on the roof.
of fans that speak from the devils lips to your ears.
of incense, candles, low lights and loud music.
of parties that didnt happen.
and parties that happened.
of alcohol, and vomiting, and of people sleeping on couches.
of smelly goths, and roomates who work at strip clubs.
of sweaty rushed sex, of quiet hushed sex.
of paper thin walls.
of music in the morning.
of long rooms, and the mess i left my life in.
of breaking into pieces, and not getting them all back together.
of just the two of us.
of just the three of us.
of myself.
of mistakes and arguments.
i remember desert mouth, and the munchies, and eating too much, and giggling, and feeling like i couldnt go any higher, and talking about nothing, and about not remembering alot of it.
I think of; late night dancing and knocking from neighbors to turn down the music on weeknights.
of many friends new, and old.
of drugs.
of feeling so sick i cant move.
of crying.
of blood on carpet, pools of blood in paper envelopes, blood in sinks and blood on sheets.
of razor blades in bath tubs and the people who left them there.
of bad art, and good art and art thats in between.
of skipping university to stay home all day, eating junk food, and watching dvds with tara.
of my first night here.
of string mazes on the roof.
of fans that speak from the devils lips to your ears.
of incense, candles, low lights and loud music.
of parties that didnt happen.
and parties that happened.
of alcohol, and vomiting, and of people sleeping on couches.
of smelly goths, and roomates who work at strip clubs.
of sweaty rushed sex, of quiet hushed sex.
of paper thin walls.
of music in the morning.
of long rooms, and the mess i left my life in.
of breaking into pieces, and not getting them all back together.
of just the two of us.
of just the three of us.
of myself.
of mistakes and arguments.
i remember desert mouth, and the munchies, and eating too much, and giggling, and feeling like i couldnt go any higher, and talking about nothing, and about not remembering alot of it.