I'm only alive when I'm vulnerable. You're giving all your cinnamon away. I am a dream away from falling asleep. I hold myself on my side, curl my toes inside my red socks and close my eyes. My inability to sleep, my tiresome anxiety in this high-rise apartment. Sleeping is something I can't do in the city. There are too many sirens, too many sinister characters getting arrested under my window and too many prostitutes in the hotel across the street.
So I throw on my leopard coat, reclaiming my youthful gaze and hop on the back of his motorcycle. We're taking a ride to the cabin. I don't know how long we'll be gone, but I don't mind. Sometimes you just have to learn how to hang, grow balls and pick a new religion.
Cabin cinnamon, he likes to steal spices for me. I leave dark red lipstick all over his neck and he keeps me warm. My running ginger bread trouble maker. Insomnia and juice.
Dark hair, thick bangs, nicotine at the gas station. I've grown to hate numbers. Constantly on the examination table, life does not fall into the indifferent. I cannot stay awake now, the waves are billowing outside and I am the fair child asleep in a band tee. Fresh air, Fresh waves. Run past the pine trees in your white ruffle underwear.