Snippets from a yellow and red journal:

November 7, 2005

and ask myself: how can she write? when pigment removed, leaves me missing in the mirror. when stars are only seen after once being inhaled, blood-drenched, were life and recreated in five glimmering spokes in syllables of silver...i am nothing if trees become space between points, become measurement of time...if i lose the wave lingering between fingers...if it crumbles into puddles. will it be there? has it evaporated? i have heard rainbows splashing the light. i once knew what a color meant.

November 13, 2005

light drips, it leaks from a place where cinnamon sticks and tap dancing live, into my eyes...it is there. light shimmers its' way through skin and veins...penetrates wooden bones and rusty blood...turns me inside out...bullet holes...plays my skeleton like a piano.

November 20, 2005

someone is suffocating my hope. already it is tomorrow, strangling me, and i feel like i need to smell a christmas tree.

"Cup of scalding tea: how it rests me"-S. Plath

November 21, 2005


do i want to write? or am i merely seeking a way to make moments permanent?

Thanksgiving is gradually being silenced by the christmas cravers.

I want to read Alice in Wonderland.