bang, bang, my baby shot me down

by Rachel Lynch in


Tonight I sat on the edge of the bathtub in my apartment, smoking endless cigarettes to the sound of depche mode and spoon. I have so much swirling around, all I want to do is make art. I imagine the brush strokes that I will lay upon my next canvas as I dry my long brown locks. Composite frames of indescribable losses and passages move through me like their mine to feel sorry about. I feel like I lack the capacity to be in love. Every time I breath, I realize how much I want to not need.