I sit and watch as my cat laps water out of his bowl. His body shifts, he looks at his food, denies it and returns to his water. 
I find myself missing the days we spent delirious from lack of sleep, when we lapped at each others souls with our tounges and denied food for fear that nurishment would tear us from our path.
How desperate we were, how we abstained from life because we balanced each other on the ledge of impending death every time we touched.

Truth

In the step program they say "hand over your will to your higher power. God as you understand him." for me, my higher power isnt God but truth. 
I feel like Common when he said that truth had him up against the ropes semi conscious without no boxing skills. 
Truth is like a rapist, hands forced between my denim and my pubic hair. 
Truth tries to tear into my skin, with his tongue in my throat. Im not strong enough to fight it. 
The truth is in the tracks of my lipstick on countless pillows up and down the west coast.
The truth is the texture of my skin, how soft it will fall away when you cut it open to look at my insides. 
My two hearts will beat, independent from any blood source, in time with trumpets and bucket drums. 
Bass heavy hip hop beats and the shine of angellic harp strings.

Bukowski, speaking truth.

“I won’t blame you, 
instead I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”

—	Raw with love by Charles Bukowski

Hope

Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a modern day fairy tale. Not to say that my life is beautiful and happy and romantic. Honestly, more often than not, my life is entirely fucked up.
I think the fairy tale part of it is that no matter what, even though I can usually be found cleaning up the shards of my broken life, I still manage to find something to love.
Some hope shines through my window along with the ever lonely, entirely uncomplicated, beautiful blue light of dawn.

its all based in moments.

"History tends to repeat itself, but now that I'm not a drunk it's a little bit difficult."
My sober ramblings may be more nonsensical than my drunken ones.
Panties and tights tangled, swollen heart, swollen ankle, [Heels to Jesus].
"What would you like your name to be?"

Who?

A writer who doesn’t write. 
Who never wanted to fall back in love with that one who hurt her so badly. 
Who breathes in wine and breathes out cigarette smoke. 
Who broke hearts once upon a time. 
Who forgets to breathe when she reads your words.