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I speak in song and find solace in poetry. I love mysterious bruises, pink lips, skirts and tights, torn up t-shirts, big eyes and bigger hearts, accidental rhyme, swingsets at two am, screaming and sweating, dancing at bus stops and singing without hesitation, beads and charms, paint and canvas, ink stains and picture frames, coffee and cigarettes, tuning you out, knitting my days and nights away, being called Babydoll, philosophizing with my Other Half, giving and receiving mix tapes and CDs, sunshine, taking pictures of everything I find gorgeous (which may or may not be gorgeous to anyone but me), picking your flowers and pinning them in my hair, dressing like a girl but spitting on the cement, conversations that go on forever, writing letters I never send, hiding away from people, driving too fast, tea parties with no one but myself, sand in between my toes, dressing up and dressing down, sewing, sleeping twelve hours, making love in the morning, stepping on your heels, baking cake and cookies and putting creepy sayings on them with icing, carpet instead of wood floors, trying to be as optimistic as possible, knowing when to go out and knowing when to stay in, coughing up colors, believing in karma, believing in other people more than I do myself, holding onto hope, beating your odds, rooting for the underdog, DIY.
I read books about girls wishing for wings, about how people in L.A. are afraid to merge, about walking through fire, about constellations and conspiracies, tulips and suicide notes, and everything in between. I am never without a book, paper and a pen. I write to breathe, to decipher everything - my mind, your mind, our collective mind; our motives and our longings, our desperation. To capture moments that may or may not be of any importance whatsoever but EXIST.
I listen to girls singing to boys about their unending love (my love is bigger than an ocean and my heart swims in a sea of devotion) and boys building treehouses for girls (i have built a treehouse, nobody can see us, it's a you-and-me-house), about nights of the living dead (and i feel so alive and i feel so alive and I FEEL!) and southern angels with insomnia (i can't sleep, i can't speak to you), badasses singing about motorcycles and attitude (i don't care about the state of my hair), girls kicking major ass (ain't got no candy for you!) and everything in between.
