mckenzington

He does not know that I am disinterested he is only interested in filling, making nauseous work like a dog finishing every scrap in the bowl long past the pains of hunger. He does not know that chasing words coy smiles and hands gently pulling wrists is not a filling meal that I am a person, not a prize to be won but he is a subway car and sometimes the hands trailing down my stomach are only tender because they know what to do when they reach the bottom. He wipes his soiled mouth on a napkin and makes sweet artistry of me with his eyes because he knows that I am the model the rough draft the fine collector’s item. So I wipe my mouth with the tablecloth and make a bridge with my knuckles a skyscraper with my thighs flesh homes and a pumping gurgling heart teeth like beautiful bricks because I am the fucking architect.

I decide to walk home instead swing open the door and my stomach drops you used to catch that I drink warm beers and don't always seem to make it home how long do skin cells live? because these ones don't seem to go Puked into a paper cup as I remembered how my head fit right under your chin I hope she tasted okay because now my mouth tastes like bile You couldn't figure me out so I figure I'll wipe the corners of my lips and take only what I need because I can't be yours but I didn't want to leave

lips are not soft. they are like waves as they crash and foam and swallow up goosebumps and whatever moves your hands across reefs of skin is no small pleasure: those tender smiles are shit-eating grins because we know the cycle of the tides. love is not soft. it is the ocean and it knows no mercy.

Some part of me longs for the breezes that would gently shake the wind chimes in my grandmother's backyard, as the little pieces of metal would tremble and that's when you would know that the whole world is silent. That part of me remembers the strange ticklish feeling of laying your head in the grass and looking up at the sun and the blue sky until your vision became spotty, knowing that you could lay there forever if no one disturbed you. But that part also remembers sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the sunflowers on the tablecloth or the rabbit-shaped egg cup that held a porcelain-coloured egg, yolk dripping down one side of the rabbit's ear. It remembers the little sadness that would grip my heart as I ate my egg, a sadness that I would wonder at curiously and ask what business it had to be there. I would receive no reply. It is the same sadness that was much more tyrannical as I laid in the dark in my father's apartment, squished into bed with my sister who

I'm not sure that I know how to be alone with myself anymore. I mean, I do, and I always have, but it's getting increasingly harder. I want to be alone all the time but when I am alone I don't want it anymore. The terrifying intimacy with a crowd of strangers unknown to you. I guess the city changes faster than the human heart.  There have been moments where I wait until I can be completely alone, and in that silence I cry. It's almost as if I can't stop, that if something or some thought didn't stop me I would cry forever until my body became some dry, waterless husk. I cry about everything and nothing in particular.  The thing they don't tell you about becoming more independent is that you have to actually face yourself. You have to know your eccentricities and particularities and when that becomes too much, the release just pours back into you, like how every time the tide goes out, it must come back in because it has nowhere else to go.  On th

Today I decided to take my daily shower a little earlier than I usually do, just after dinner. As I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair, an alarm started going off. For a moment I stopped and wondered what the heck it could be. Residences don't have fire drills very often and I couldn't imagine what else they would need an alarm for. After a few seconds of wondering whether it would be truly worth it to put on my clothes and skip my moisturizing routine (which, in this dry winter season, is very important), I made a somewhat safe assumption that if it was a real emergency, someone would check the bathroom. I continued my shower and the alarm eventually stopped. My roommate later told me that it was in fact a fire drill and everyone was thinking, "McKenzie must be freaking the fuck out", meanwhile I was peacefully rinsing soap suds off my body. Live and let live, I suppose. Halifornia doesn't really deserve its nickname right now because it's been really