what a spoiled girl

love is not for me.

dinners made, in the morning ella fitzgerald, soft words

and still it was not enough for me. 

i have been a muse. i have been inspired. 

"i will change,"

no. no, thank you. 

i didn't pack any bags. 

i live out of a car, which i am afraid to drive at the moment. 

a planner can't save me this time.

and i've buried a lot of dreams. for petty fights. clinging desperately for 

a piece of me. 

Chanting on the inside

I'm breathing into and out to the ether. Calmly, I meet my deadlines and somehow never measure to be good enough, despite giving all I have to a place that does not care for my health. Does not care for my hardships. Does not mind my time nor my abilities.

What's going to happen when I die? The falling of each letter will bury me deeper in the ground as I take my experiences with me, all the years of words quietly into my bones, disintegrating for a place on earth that does not care. 

Clinking of teeth,
What is kissing supposed to be like anyway? Wet slop and high emotions, can you do it for hours? Until my septum falls off. 

Laura and I have graduated to a relationship of tolerance. Everyday there is a sink full of dishes. She has scratched the bottom of my only good pan by cutting whatever leftovers she was heating up from her Mothers' with my own knife, probably.

I take so many pictures I never intend on looking for them. When I was younger, I loved hearing the phrase, "you are wise beyond your years," directed at me. I'm finally turning 30 this year. In about a mouth. It's funny how everyone convinced me until I became obsessed with wisdom-- crippled at the slightest childish act but my sister wrote and sent me a card recently, explaining; "you can't escape your fate. Love, Adnana" So here is playful Arijana. The child in the family who never quite finished. Didn't need any toys in the sandbox, but desperately needed to know of their existence. I feel so stupid so often.

I want to draw and if I can't then I want to cry.