earlgaylatte

[earlgaylatte]

Cleaning Out the Closet in My Childhood Bedroom, Where I Spent Most of My Seventh Grade Year-

I hid the photos of my father on the top

Shelf, behind a crab hat and embroidered

Bandanas. In one picture

I press my cheek to his like I could

Transfer my baby fat and pull the sallow

From his face.

Somewhere behind the old polaroids-

dad in cowboy boots and camo, him holding His father's Bible, him, looking like a candle that will never go out.

I find his old City on a Hill t-shirt, and

Pretend that if I put it on, it'd still go

Down to my knees.

When I was in seventh grade, I spent more

Time in that physical, metophorical closet

Then I did around him.

And now his abscene

Leaves me wondering, if

He could smell the boyhood on me,

Like I could smell the pot

Seeping into the fabric seats of his pickup.

I may have become his son, but I

Will always love him like a daughter. And I

Would happily give up this life if

He just got to be happy- and with a boy,

If he wanted.

In a dream I hear the impact of stones

being tossed at my window,

and my father-

aged thirteen, grey eyes filled with holy joy and michief, boyish face without sunspots, angel untouched by opioids.

My father is beckoning me outside, asking

if I want to go fishing in the river a mile or

so down the road.

I have to tear my eyes away. I can't save him

This time. It's already happening.

It already happened.

In a dream, he doesn't give me that lecture

On biblical sexuality, and neither does his

Dad.

When he tries to out-scream his queerness,

Sobriety is louder.

How many nights did I spend praying

crying sobbing begging talking confessing

Praying

To no one and nothing?

(god didn't forgive me)

I hope someday Shame asks me for mercy,

And I don't give it to them.

I deserve that.

(there was nothing to forgive)

[earlgaylatte]

🚨 We Need Your Kindness to Survive 🚨

Hello, My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with my family. Life here has become harder than I ever imagined, and I’m writing this with hope in my heart that you might hear our story.

The ongoing war has devastated my family. We’ve lost 25 family members—each one a beloved part of our lives, taken too soon. I miss them deeply—their laughter, their presence, their love. Every day is a reminder of this unimaginable loss.

64.media.tumblr.com

64.media.tumblr.com

64.media.tumblr.com

64.media.tumblr.com

64.media.tumblr.com

We are now facing daily challenges to survive—things that most people take for granted, like food, clean water, and a safe place to sleep. The harsh realities of life here have replaced our dreams with the constant fight for survival.

Our Current Situation:

💔 Lost Stability: The war has left us without work or a stable source of income. 🍞 Basic Needs: Food and water are becoming harder to afford with rising prices and scarce resources. 📚 Dreams on Hold: Like so many here, my family’s dreams have been replaced by the need to simply survive. 😢 Unimaginable Loss: Losing 25 loved ones has left a void that can never be filled.

How You Can Help:

I’m sharing our story with the hope that someone out there might care. Even $5 can make a big difference for us, and if you’re unable to donate, just reblogging this post can help spread the word.

Your kindness, no matter how small, is something we’ll never forget.

What This Means to Us:

Your support is not about changing our entire situation—it’s about giving us a little relief, a little hope, and a way to keep going. We are not asking for much, and we understand if you can’t donate. Sharing our story is just as valuable to us as a donation.

Thank you for reading this far. It means the world to us to know that someone is listening. Your kindness gives us strength and helps us believe in a better tomorrow.

With all our gratitude, Mosab Elderawi and Family ❤️

✅️ Vetted by ✅️

@gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #309 )✅️

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @just-browsing1222-deactivated20 @mothblossoms @aleciosun @fluoresensitive @khizuo @lesbiandardevil @transmutationisms @schoolhater @timogsilangan @appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @palestinegenocide @sar-soor @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @feluka @tortiefrancis @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @visenyasdragon @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @kordeliiius @brutaliakhoa @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @theropoda @tamarrud @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @skatezophrenic @awetistic-things @camgirlpanopticon @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabulsi @sygol @junglejim4322 @heritageposts @chososhairbuns @palistani @dlxxv-vetted-donations @illuminated-runas @imjustheretotrytohelp

[earlgaylatte]

Recipe For a Good Christmas Eve

Set the temperature of the house to just

Under sixty degrees farenheit, warm enough

That the windows won't freeze shut and cold

Enough that you won't have to pay electric.

Fingertips pink,

Then white, under the frigid air of your

Bedroom, knowing

Your mom's hands look the same. Knuckles

White on the steering wheel. Cheeks pink

From the wine.

Mix up your usual conversations and get-

A damn sense of humor for once, I mean,

God, have you been this serious your whole

Life? I remember you used to find me funny.

Now you slink off to the back porch, feeding

Strays and building birdhouses and I haven't

Seen you smile since you turned sixteen.

From long drives to look at

Christmas lights and the gold reflecting

Off the windshield; you've come to

Understand how deer get stuck

In the headlights. You should

Burn your hair off at candlelight vigil,

You should

Set everything ablaze in holy retribution,

You hope

Someone will intervine on your behalf and

Drag brittle bones off the road.

Follow instructions to a T. Don't go

Off the trail to the ditch you nearly

Froze to death in or weave between

Rows of Balsam fir to the place you

Buried your first sour jar. Don't laugh

With fangs showing or shake the snow out

Your hair like a dog, for god's sake-

Warm up under blankets and Bake

Yoursef with stolen weed. Under Geminids

And Ursids and Auroa Borealis, you

Remember how you used to stay up late

Watching for shooting stars each

Christmas Eve. Between blood shot eyes

And Bloody Mary's you think

You can see the ghost of Christmas Past

Walk barefoot across your lawn.

This Holiday Season, you want

Commercials to be half as long and

The beer cooler to be anywhere but

The basement. To not have to break up

Anymore fights until

New Years wipes the slate clean. You want

Dutch babies and dill latkes like

Mama used to make before you came out:

When you were a little girl

And still easy to love.

[earlgaylatte]

My Stepbrother Quit Last Month so Who's Going on the Cousin Walk With Me?-

Blink and it's December, and the evergreens

Are covered in a thin layer of frost, ice

Caked on each needle like the cold

Sticks the mess of snot and salt you call

Grief to your face. Blink and

All your childhood pets have died. But the

Goosedown blanket on your bed

Still smells like your Dog's fur.

You scattered her ashes in the

Creek eons ago, but here she is. Imbedded

In the very fibers of your house.

And the creek's frozen over by now,

Minnows suspended in the ice mid stroke. Winter makes everything listless; The empty

Nests and broken branches littering

The driveway, to the old firepit you

Used to tell ghost stories around.

These days, you're bracing the usual

Midwestern smoke and storms to chase after

A pipe dream of an education. And any

Whimsy you used to have got left in

The snow angels decorating the front yard.

You're not a kid anymore, you've got

To remember that. You hold your braid

Like it's tethering you to Earth and

Your body relaxes.

Blink and it's December, and the black ice

Covers every road like insulation.

The plows aren't paid enough to ever reach

Your township. You know you're home

When it smells like smoked fish and

Blue salt always spread too thin to thaw.

Your Grandma isn't in the hospital yet.

And you haven't transitioned so she still

Remembers you. But blink and

It'll be over.

[earlgaylatte]

Going to Minnesota

Took the highway from I-35 to hell,

Guns blazing like firecrackers in the

Low midwestern light. This snow

Is a damn health hazzard, just

Bright enough that headlights bouncing off it

Look like beacons to houses with

Broken boilers and ice caked windows.

I don't want to spend another eternity in these streets,

Kissing the pavement for sparing my life this long.

Deer with broken spines litter the ditches like

Glitter, mouths still open. Snowbanks try

To carve out hollows in themselves, begging

Something, anything, to come be alive in them.

A hometown is only as cold as the people in it.

They say

The northshore is where humanity stops and

The arctic begins.

The person down the other end of the bottle asks

Me for my biggest regret.

It's this:

That every middle school plan to catch a greyhound,

Every morning I cried until the tears froze to my cheeks,

Being fourteen and buried to my chest in ice,

That cutting off my braid didn't wash the

Iron Range off of me.

It's under my nails, in every rounded vowel,

In the grey-green held in my irises. Every

Cruelty said like a kiss.

I white-knuckle mineral cliffs chasing the ghost of

My old face.

Oh, old Superior, please don't take my

Wanting to disappear as permission.

Old tunnels to the iron mines, please- I want

To come out of this whole.

If there is a shot at the end of this tunnel

I'll swallow it.

If there is a light at the end of this tunnel

I'll swallow it.

[earlgaylatte]

2:45 pm, “i miss you”

reads the text and i

think of pinks and

magentas swirling beneath

my eyelids and

the rise and fall of

orange-and-green breath

“i miss you too” i say in

return and remember

grandpa sweaters and

teeth against skin and

your name buzzing on

my tongue, tingling

like hibiscus tea

the airplane icon taunts

me here between home

and hell

while i recall 2am

and fairy lights and

warm silence

i think of looms and strings and

collecting bugs and wonder

how the breeze feels over

there in the

place you crawled out

of screaming and

bleeding and

wonder if you

are thinking the same

things about me too

[earlgaylatte]

I'm Drunk on Lychee and Your Voice Tastes Like Starlight-

For every night I've spent cursing the ghosts in my ribcage. For every shooting star I was too shy to wish on. For every lipstick stain I couldn't get off your shoulder. For every time I got home smelling like Old Spice and Texan Sun. For every time you've left me too stunned to speak. For every curly hair I've ever found on my shirt. For every inch of your skin I've held in my teeth. For every drop of beer turning my stepdad mean. For every time you laid dead weight in my arms. For the feeling of your palms against my own. For every shot I couldn't convince you to take with me. For seeing my doodles kissing your wrist. For every cup of tea like a written confession in my hands. For every house I'll carve a space for you in. I see you I know you and I love you. My veins are thrumming with it. I love you I love you I love you I love-

[earlgaylatte]

Not Even This

i. He looks at you like you’re something holy, despite finding you with clouded eyes, half asleep in the library. Despite the yellow fluorescence turning the hollow parts of your cheeks into semicolons. In fact, you think he may have woken you up in the first place; by gently kissing the papercuts lining your wrists and murmuring your name like a prayer until you forgot the guilt academia gives you.

ii. Sometimes he’ll read a chapter from your textbook out loud to you, and it takes the rawness of the content off your shoulders. This day in history, Amsterdam snuffed out the socialists like an American Politician’s breath blowing birthday candles. This day nineteen years ago, you were brought into this world with nothing but a crown of Irish curls and a prayer. You swear his voice reading the date over and over still sounds like bullets.

iii. You're trying to build a colosseum of knowledge around yourself like it could save you. History can't shoot your Achilles Heel if you make it your bitch. One of these days, you’ll tell him how much you hate working on your birthday. But today is not that day, and the plate of cut fruit he brings you splits the red sea of words you're drowning in.

iv. And you hate yourself for it, the undercut of self-loathing in every flirtatious comment you toss his direction. You want his cheeks to flush under the warmth of your hands or your lips, but you run out of kisses before he runs out of ways to breathe your name.

v. When he curls into you, this time you cup his face like it's something sacred. Like it's the answer to every question burning under your tongue. You’ve loved him long enough that the ancient wounds of abandonment have faded into keloids- hieroglyphics on a tomb that’ll never be opened again. You know nothing, NOTHING could scare him away now, not even this.

[earlgaylatte]

Old Enough-

Came out of the womb/Fists curled and screaming/Little red face scrunched up in the white light./Foreshadowing to the nth degree./Body soft enough to be young./Sharp shrieking anger like a banshee and a head of Irish curls./Born old enough for your emergency contact to be the emergency/Or old enough to taste acetaminophen on your breath./The first time you watch a X-rated movie/You’ll cry yourself to sleep and won’t know why,/The first time you masturbate to the sight of a pretty trans boy you’ll try to take your life during sub-drop./Baby never smelt like Johnson’s lotion, just/Jack Daniels and cigarette ash./Fifteen the first time you asked a man to put one out on you./Sixteen and realizing being called pretty boy raises goosebumps like worship music,/Feeling slick and wild under the red midwest Sun./Growing up like a humiliation ritual with no safeword./Queer and/There’s no metaphor for that, just being seventeen the first time you/Took a smoke break from his parted lips/And seconds old when they pulled you up off the hospital bed still rosy and roaring./Brought into this life knowing that it’d be spent starting riots./You’re not old enough to drink but old enough/For friends to be killed or kill themselves./Not yet prose but a/Poem.

[earlgaylatte]

Burnt Popcorn

I never misgender myself, Unless I’m standing in the kitchen with my mom,  Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand. 

When I was growing up,  The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough,  To keep fathers and devils out of it,  Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege. 

One of these afternoons, I just know- I’ll come home to it expanded,  Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredients  Instead of color. 

I’m not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twisted  Up on the floor of the kitchen chewing Mango pits and getting caught underfoot.

Sometimes I see her in the reflection of clean pots and pans,  When I’m seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Mom’s cup Forms her daughter’s face.

Did you have prophecies too, Mama? Or  Is that something you shed like a Second skin when you started going to that Fundie church for a boy with blue-grey eyes and A haunting grin? I want to know

If the ashes from his cigarette falling Onto your pregnant belly revealed the Spiteful bitch I’d become.

I used to identify as a girl, now,  I  identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things You’re too disgusted to utter out loud. 

But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. I’d let you kick me off your counters  A thousand times if you’d just call me your son.

Dear Midwestern Daughter, Dear Midwestern Ghost.  One of these days I’ll hand you the dread I shouldered like Judas and teach You just how I earned this name.

[earlgaylatte]

Witches in Love

fall) bristles caressing the cuffed sleeves

of that beaten corduroy jacket, clinging

close enough that I grow jealous. the fall of a changing

village, streets bright with pops of orange. may these

changing leaves change me, into

a beast less hungry. I've heard whispers of phantoms, 

Or the things townsfolk call phantoms:

(Your laugh loud and echoing, enough that

stray cats come to investigate. 

Your sweet face scrunched in the autumn sun.)

winter) the slowness of love like a tear falling

down your cheek, kissing your jaw

with its warmth in the sharp snowy air.

-I'd take your warmth in my mouth if you

catch my drift- so long as you keep

those pretty lips praying. mom once said

if I am down on all fours

it better be for religion. the floor

creeks under the weight

of me shifting from knees to

palms; your hands ghost

over my hair like an Ouija board.

spring) it reminds me of spirits, which is to say, 

it reminds me of lying chest to chest in the shrubs, 

hearts beating like a beckoning call

for wraiths to rest in our skin. you

were focused on apparitions.

I was trying to make a worship of counting

each crease by your eyes when you smile,

each time your breath ghosted my ears.

everything ended in fours, so I

had to kiss you; four breaths in

like the hands on the dial, like the

number of books thrown off my shelf

by some energy stirring, wild and restless.

summer) the thing about the occult is once

you invite it in, it'll 

linger at every doorstep you know.

oh, soul of my damn spell work, tender as ever. 

oh, strawberry-kissed mouth.

oh, blooming summer flowers, spewing pollen over everything,

even our thighs where they meet. My

heart beat is so loud that it

could set a rhythm for us to turn

this flower field into a bedroom. 

[earlgaylatte]

Female President-

The day before this election passes like a bad dream, we’ll wake up with our limbs tangled around each other like we grew up a house apart. Feel this, my heart racing first thing in the morning. Taste this, coffee and ashes from the stove mixed into some strange elixir. Depsite the dread, the sun still rises like the price of oranges this November day. Beside me, you’re still asleep. You wrap your arms around my wrist like a ghost of the childhood friends who will vote against me this Tuesday. Like back when it was summer and we would lie in the grass, heads on each other’s stomachs. I told those kids secrets like it was pillow talk, but now only the dragonflies remember them. When I was six, I wanted to be the first Female President of the United States. Now I wear my student debt and American sorrow like a purple heart. Now I’m scared I’d become like every other white male politician promising things he’ll never keep. Feel my heart again, it’s beating faster. I thank god you’re not a boy so I can still say the only boy I’ve ever fallen in love with is myself. Stay curled up on the mattress like a portrait so that if I check the news and we’ve lost it all, this is how I’ll remember you. And when you wake up, wrap your arms around me from behind while I make breakfast. Pretend you don’t feel the way my shoulders shake. I’ll put Bailey’s in our lattes this morning if you promise not to drive. And if you show up at our doorstep five minutes after class should have started, you better not have a Bible or a bottle in your hands. I always fall in love with people who trace the freckles on my forearms and smell like wood and whiskey. Swear you won’t judge me if you catch me praying (begging) to every God I know the name of. If I am going to have my life cut short by American politics, I’ve decided that it has to be meaningful from now on. 

[earlgaylatte]

Hello 👋, I hope you're doing well..

My name is Mahmoud, and I'm a 17-year-old from Gaza. The ongoing war has devastated my city, destroyed my school, and made daily life incredibly challenging.

Despite these hardships, I'm determined to continue my education and build a better future. I've been given a chance to study abroad, but I need help to cover the costs of leaving Gaza, as well as living expenses and other essentials abroad once the crossing opens..

If you can, please consider donating or sharing, your kindness can truly make a difference, and thanks for your time. 🙏❤

gofund.me/bd3ccf0b

if anyone has any space in their budget to donate for Palestine, please please please help Mahmoud escape the genocide in Gaza and fund his education abroad.

[earlgaylatte]

Real Estate-

i'm looking for a house. low crime area,

affordable rent, no

lingering smell of weed or suicide.

two bedrooms.

attached to a bus line, prefferably-

i'm trying to find an answer to the lingering

dread in every 'for sale' sign littering

front lawns like garden gnomes.

i spend all my free time drifting from street

to street like a ghost, like

this isn't a pipe dream, and finally i can

settle down long enough for the

trembling in my shoulders to stop.

hope sparks up from unread emails but it

won't last-

any longer than a game of hopstoch

in the neighbourhood named solitude

i built up in my mind.

there's a road from your heart to mine, the

highway i built in our chests. let's go for

a midnight drive. this time

i won't spend the entire car ride weeping

over every crushed dog on the sidewalk,

collars bearing names like

"home ownership" or "marriage."

i'm trying to build an idylic house for us, i'm

trying,

but damn these roadblocks and potholes.

home insurrance won't kick in for another

three months. brick and mortar wraps

around us like a wet blanket. i'm looking for

a house with rooms close enough that i can

feel your sobs like

breath on my neck

through the echoing walls.

and if i find us a home, don't love it or

it won't last.

i know this because my stepdad never says

"i love you,"

but he does say

"if i didn't push you this hard,

you'd be stuck here until you died."

[earlgaylatte]

origami dragonfly

the ghosts are singing to me as

i unwrap them from

their paper casings in

a pit stop house

as i listen to songs that

claw at me like the beasts i

heard about in bedtime stories

these ghosts will become their

own bedtime stories someday

this room feels like a

room in my grandparent’s house that

i know is mine in the

moment but feels impermanent

a waiting room a pit

stop a cave on

a rainy night to take

shelter and then move

on

these ghosts look different under

these lights they seem

far away and

faded and yet i still

hear the voices of their

former selves every time i

glance

at the shelf the dresser the

desk that will be mine for all

of one week

(five days and eight

hours to be

precise and then i

will be gonegonegone

again and again how

many times will i leave

the places that cradled me in

cupped palms how

often will i leave the cave and step

into the howling winds and

chattering rain and wander

lost in the thrumming darkness)

i wish i could swear elegantly

and with poise in these tormented

things some people call

poems but the ghosts don’t

deserve fuck and shit and

damn and all the other

things that express anger because

i’m not angry with them or

even myself really it’s all just

spewed all over the floor like

packing paper and i

step and it crunches mother

says be careful dad is

sleeping and i say of

course as i trip over fucks and

shits and damns and all the things i

keep locked up inside but

the ghosts know and they

hold these secrets for me in

exchange for watching while i

cry to songs about hating your home and

wishing that i didn’t

understand what she meant when

she says we’ve been cursed

since the start Jesus didn’t

want us

the ghosts smile pityingly at

me from their shelves

and suddenly i do have fucks and

shits and damns to say to them because

how could you

leave me how

could you love me so

fucking conditionally how could

you give me feelings for

which i have no name

how could you fucking

change me and then leave

me to rot

and then the packing paper is

gone and the ghosts have

retreated and there are

only dim lights and

the hum of the overworked

ac to keep me company

and the wait continues

original work, 2024

[earlgaylatte]

How to Empathize with the Sad Tboy who Lives in the Dorm Across From Yours-

1) Shed everything, from the seatbelt wrapped around your core to the sheets on your childhood bed. When the sun rises in the morning and peppers your face with kisses, draw the curtains and block him out. Believe what the media says about transness, that it is a life of absence.

2) Start practicing constant fear. Wake up with shaking hands and looming dread laying over you like a blanket. Check the news. Don't check the news. Prepare to carry the burden of every sixteen year old killed in the nearest big city, even when the police say it was a suicide. Check the news. Watch the murders slowly get closer to your home.

3) Put wrapping paper up over your mirrors because you can no longer bear the sight of yourself. If anyone asks why you aren't eating or showering, make something up. Fill your stomach on the feeling of shame.

4) Daydream that you were born a boy. Replace all your childhood memories with this version of you. Your father is still around, and he's carrying the precious little boy he's raising up to bed. His feet are nimbly dodging toy trucks and legos, and in the morning, he'll wake you up to scrambled eggs and little sips of his coffee. When he talks about you with his new family, he'll say, "That's my son," instead of "Pass me the bottle."

5) When your mom starts catching on, try to ignore the sobbing you hear from her bedroom, her shaking voice begging the pastor of your church to make sense of it. Don't knock and try to comfort her. Don't acknowledge how icy your stepfather has become, how often he seems to be accessing your masculinity and finding you lacking. And whatever you do, don't start trying to track down your father, who must've seen some ghost of it on you when he left.

6) When the church gathers around you in a circle, rebuking the boyhood they call demons, don't flinch. Don't cry either. Just clutch the baggy flannel you're wearing around you tighter, like a fabric hug could heal the fractures of your soul.

7) Don't call that church a cult, even if it was. Don't go back to it, either.

8) When you get older, stand in the bathroom with scissors, hair dye, and a promise. Slowly shape yourself into something you can recognize, soft waves of hair falling into the sink. When you see yourself again, it will be a disaster. But it will feel like being whole.

9) When your mom says that the HRT will kill you, when your stepdad says that the HRT will kill your mom, don't let it under your skin like the other cruelties. Don't trade a full life for conditional familiarity, some semblance of holiness, and no sense of self.

10) Instead, tell them that you want to live long enough to tell your story. Tell them if you die, it will be in a blaze of glory: god's gift of creation is told in the generational echoes of people like us.

[earlgaylatte]

There's Nothing to do In Duluth Minnesota-

"hey i want you to know i'm okay before you check the news but there was a drive by shooting across from my house and i'm being questioned and i'm freaking out my cousin was killed i didn't know him but i'm okay and the dogs are okay."

some day, people will stop looking at the

picturesque lake and will witness this city,

some day, the tourists will stop flocking to

the rocks and other attractions

like confused seagulls,

the bridge will split in half, and the boats

will capsize and the reporters and tabloids

will claim it's mutiny or

divine intervention.

one of these days the bus drivers will go on

strike and never come back,

pushed over the edge by some drunk

college kid on their bus,

spewing nazi propaganda to anyone who

will listen,

and when he gets off the bus and follows

me from the gas station to my school,

well,

one of these days

the police will intervene.

one day the murmurs about what happens

down in the west side will quiet

and everyone will stop looking at canal park

as some sort of beacon.

they'll stop gentrifying this city and when i

come back

i'll be able to recognize it.

but there's nothing to do in Duluth,

Minnesota,

except let your bones sink deep into the

pond out back or wish for the snow to start

mid July.

this is the city where Minnesotans come to

retire,

which is to say where they come to die.

one of these days i will sink my teeth into

the seedy underbelly of this town

and expose the rotten roots to everyone.

i will look the police in the eyes when they

ticket the third teacher this week,

and they'll come to their senses and find all

the native girls disappearing overnight and

stop wasting their time on parking meters

or harassing addicts, and the mayor will give

more than sidewalk chalk

to the homeless.

some day, i will settle into an idyllic life in a house with a garden and an extra room for my friends and a loving spouse and a cat. i will have time to bake bread on the weekends, i'll make perfume out of fresh mint and rosemary. i won't fear bears outside my window or pimps hovering outside my school and when one finally snaps i won't die a storm of regret and half hearted friendships haunting this damn town as another ghost shaped girl.

one of these days,

i'll shed the film that city left on me and i

will never ever go back to it again.

there's nothing to do in Duluth, Minnesota.

hey, are you fucking listening to me?

i said there's nothing to do in Duluth

Minnesota.