just for your approval

everyone is a writer, right? because we all have something to talk about. and when we have something to talk about, we know we have to have somewhere to write it down. and when we write it down, we know we desperately want somewhere to publish it. and when we publish it, we feel as if we should have someone to read it. and when they read it, we feel as if we need a critical review -- and regardless of whether it's good or whether it's bad we all go on about our way saying that it needs a golden star. approval.

all those gold stars could only lead up to one thing, right? so thus it means that, by the former definition, writing is only a way to get gold stars. to get approval.



(remember that time i said i'd stop, and then i found a couple american spirits in my bag? i do too. and i also remember how incredible it felt to break a promise to myself. that makes us imperfect, right? the ability to break our own promises to ourselves. the ability to look at our faces and think that somehow, some way, we are perfect. but none of us are. and those who try so hard to perfect that outer appearance are only trying to hide the not-so-great one on the inside.)


my ideas have been lost between the flame needed to ignite the wick on my honeydew candle, that has since been transferred to light the end of your cigarette. they weren't packed very well. you blow out into the cold night and smile at me as the strings of smoke sneak through the microscopical gaps between your two front teeth. (you find that utterly unattractive. but it's imperfection, right?) and then you laughed, because you saw me watching that ribbon of smoke dancing around in the air, and you asked me what i found so interesting about its choreography. why it was so daunting to me. i wanted to write on your fingers - on the webbed edges connecting each of your fingers and up and down your hand and on your wrist. just things. so you'd think of me. things that would confuse the hell out of you, make you think twice. three times.

and then we laughed, in unison. about the same thing. i grabbed on to your side and held you close to me and under the artificial lights we burned, melted, jolted together.


(when i woke up, i wrote this. and on the top of the page, right underneath my name and the date, i placed a gold star.)