want to write so here we go.
I’m sleeping on these honeycomb sheets.
They’re not sticky but they make me feel like my soul and my body are gravitating towards each other.
Magnets.
The positive and negative changing colour like the mood ring on Alex’s index bone. I am drunk, drunk, drunk, and all I can think about is white powder made for nostrils:
Maybe I’m addicted.
It’s all I could think about last night, and that is a very good thing.
Good because it strips me of the black tar that holds me down. The guilt, you know?

Maybe I am addicted.

Something I’ve never explored before.
New land.
Native desert.
I’m cool with it, like pillows; flipped onto the opposing side.
It’s okay, because I know how I can deal with this.
Financially calculate the habit into the hazy lifestyle I involve myself in.

Why doesn’t anyone sell to me?
“You’re too innocent, Ariel.”
The declaration of unindependence.
I need someone on the strip that will hook me up upon my becking call.
Someone that will get me off and eat salsa and chips with me.
Brett?
No, not Brett.

Maybe I’m in over my head.
A summer-salt, halfway sprung into fall’s red and orange and yellow.

Yellow.

That’s how I want I want people to see me:
Yellow.
But if I incorporate white into the mixture, I will turn into mustard.
And I don’t want to be mustard.

I want to be honey.