New Sincerity;

I lived in an all-girls single-dorm building. This meant that each dorm room only had one girl.
Sometimes I could hear someone cry at night.
Sometimes it was me.
Sometimes I heard laughing and singing and even television shows.

I’m not sure what I’m
trying to say here.

(Source: jjenah)

Somehow the orange glow of the lamps outside the library reminded me of home. Not just home an hour and a half away; but home. Where my cousins are. Where my aunts and uncles and grandparents are.

Maybe it was the cigarette smoke that still hung in the air, and the disembodied laughter that passed me by as I biked back.

Maybe I just want to be far from here —back to a place where I never felt stress. Because home isn’t home and neither is here.

(Source: jjenah)

Maybe if I get a better sleep schedule, my state of mind would get better. And then things would fall into place the way I want them to. Because, you know; I’d feel better about working harder.

You know.
Right?

Somehow I can’t seem to fool myself into thinking the world works that way.
Somehow I have this mindset that if my bar is set low enough, I could just walk over it.

But I’m better than that.
Right?

(Source: jjenah)

Sometimes I wonder
if his hands would fit
the way yours did
and whether
that’s an odd thought
to have.

(Source: jjenah)

My lids grow heavy and I remember the faint brush of your lips of when you used to kiss them while I dreamt. My eyes would roll back and forth under my lashes, and you found it endearing to know that I was with you, without being with you.

——

Anatomic observations. The veins under my skin cross at different times under mirrored appendages. It’s obvious my left hand requires more blood, with all the different routes available. My frame is light and slender and I want nothing more than to be of normal proportions. The back of my head is rounder than most, because as an infant, my mother laid me on my tummy. I wonder how it would be like if I were bald.

——

My professor in the summer course I’m taking, has a soft voice and a grandfatherly demeanor. He often smiles and chuckles, and shuffles back and forth. I drew a sketch of him —like I do most of my professors; and I hope one day to upload my compilation sketches.

——

Sometimes bad things happen to good people.

(Source: jjenah)

What happens to all those little things you noticed about someone when you’re going out with them? I know I don’t forget. And they probably don’t either. I just end up holding my tongue when those moments come where I can’t chide in lightheartedly on a choice they’ve made or a change in taste anymore.

It’s like a sad tiny man with a shovel digs the commentary out of my vocabulary, because I’m not allowed to say those things anymore, even though I’d very much like to. And the little man looks on, worriedly but dutifully.

—

Maybe ignorance is bliss. You wouldn’t want more if you didn’t know more existed.

—

I don’t like situations where a person just rubs you the wrong way, but you can’t outright tell them that because it changes the entire dynamic of the mutual friends you have.

(Source: jjenah)

When I spend a while not talking, a knot forms in my throat where all the words I should have used get stuck.

I’ve learned to live with it, and it’ll eventually go away.
But words unsaid are hardest to digest.

I wonder if you ever feel it too…

That pressing silence that squeezes at your windpipe —that stops your hand from reaching up with open fingers and drawing attention —that keeps you from saying that you miss me.

Or is that your pride?

(Source: jjenah)

The presence of others is easily apparent all the time here. Walking from the library, a trio of unseen saxophonists blast impromptu cool-jazz into the hot night air, bringing a smile to my lips.

I’m never really alone here.

——

My microbiology prof has a soft, warbling voice, singed with a hint of walking on autumn leaves. Sometimes I don’t listen to what she’s saying, struggling to mentally piece the sound of it into words.

I don’t think I’ve done justice.

——

Curling feeling in my gut, telling me I should be doing my work —but I really would rather not to.

(Source: jjenah)

touch you.

Not in a sexual way,
or even intimately.
Just in that way where you know I’ll be there.
No questions about it.

Because I am.

(Source: jjenah)

My hands are small but my fingers are long. I’ve been asked a couple times whether I play the piano and whether I’ve ever been a hand model. I don’t know the diameter of my iris, nor do I want to know my exact height, but heels always help even though my feet protest in the most excruciating way.

I’ve shed my insecurities, came in terms with who I project myself as; but I’m always faulty when it comes to any sort of measured improvement. What have I accomplished? Whom have I made smile? Have I ever been in love?

All these questions are so arbitrary, so I feel like you must find out for yourself what you deem important, substantial, palpable. —Whether you’re interested enough to do so.

I invite you to talk with me sometime. Preferably til dawn.

(Source: jjenah)