August 12, 2013

Jean Pockets

A poem begins with a lump in the throat.

Really, for me that's my best writing. When I'm sad and full of emotions. The Skin and I broke up. Fuck. We had this whirl-wind love affair. It was beautiful, the way it just happened. Once that haze wore off it was replaced by a bad aura. Our relationship ending, might also have to do with my discovery of a hotel receipt in his back jean pocket when I was doing him a favor by washing his clothes. 

Date: 8/4/2013 Check in: 11:30 p.m. Guests: 2  

Now, I can relay his story of why he needed this room in his home town, or I can just say that I'm no fool. 

 I know I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it again, but: FUCK DATING. My standards are too high. My expectations are probably never going to be met. And I'm accepting it. And focusing on me. Getting my life to where I want it to be. 

 I'm going to move to Austin next year. Do what I wanted to do back in 2010 but was too afraid to. I don't know why I was afraid. Shit, after Honduras nothing scares me.  

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