rich bitches

live outside the city / take edibles / like it when fathers buy new yellow iPhones / get in-home massages / couldn’t live on water anywhere else / want to make money / own one pair of shoes two times over / eat popcorn and drink sparkling water / hang Tibetan prayer flags / drive Teslas / have no thoughts / no thoughts / rich bitches everywhere

Ask me what’s wrong

I'll say I'm tired
You'll move on
I won't say why
You won't ask
But I'm tired
Tired of people who take presence for granted
Granted my presence is nothing but tired
But I am tired
Tired of the fallout
When you put people on pedestals
They stay long enough to understand the elevation
Noting the vertical distance between you and them
But you put them there
Chose to look up to them
And now there's a fall out
When they fall
You seem them fail
They took your presence for granted
You took their elevation for granted
You wonder now
Whether pedestals were meant to be empty
No people
No places
No pain
Presence perhaps
Pedestals present
But empty
There would be no fall out
But still aspiration
And you'd have the energy to climb
Because you wouldn't be so tired

no title needed

I am myself again
but only sometimes
when I find stillness in my body
when I love unconditionally
when I breathe deeply
when I live lightly
when they ask what I need
and I can't fathom an answer
I have all I need
I am myself again

happy // frustrated – mom + popsicle edition

happy that your dad is mostly happy and not nasty and moody like he used to be

frustrated with your dad sometimes, only sometimes

he doesn’t always say what he means and then he expects me to be the communicator

and with how he deals with his family, he doesn’t

ooop have to go back and write a few more happies

and with how he repeats himself when complaining about something, “you see what i’m getting at, right?”

and even though I answer, he asks me at least a thousand more times

a thousand

but i love am anyway

and i am happy



the water so still

the water was so still today

body and mind too

fed both last night


still trying to figure it out

the warmth was gentle

not overwhelming

nor under


the warmth was whelming

and the water so still

Perfectly Boring People

Standing around.

Acting like they know ****

They don’t know ****

Slick hair and smooth skin.

Made up.

Never showed up.

Be real.


Maybe just a few more flaws?

Or are perfectly boring people flawed enough?

Thursday, April 10th or 11th

Thursdays are hard for me.

I wake up when I need to but not when I want to.

I move, but my body doesn’t.



My headphones couldn’t possibly move the music from my ~device~ to my ears well enough.

I plaster the speaker to my ear,

Trying to make myself move.


I need a drug.

The train station is empty.

You might think you see people you know.

You don’t,

You know.

Sit down.

Train moves,

Body doesn’t.

Snow falls,

In some way.

I think,

In some way.

We live,

In some way.

Thursdays are hard.

Oreos // Diet Coke // Candy

“Are you here for the Hare Krishna too? It’s my first time.” A white face appeared in the crack of the door. The door opened wide. Her eyes wider.

“Please. Come in.”

We stood together in the entryway, a slanted landing in an old multi-family home. Her eyes bore into mine.

“It’s my first time too, but my friend said it’s in the basement. Let’s head down.”

“Of course. I brought these for prasad, the offering, you know, the feast, the sacred one.” Oreos. My first-timer friend had brought artificially manufactured cookies as prasad. Oreos.

We crept downstairs. Silent people shuffled through narrow hallways, cluttered but well-kept. We entered the room of worship, signaled by its gold-plated plastic relics, littered altar, slumpy pillows, candles, and incense. An old white man with an arm in a navy sling, an eye under a black patch, and a head wrapped in a yellowing headscarf sat in a folding chair. I wondered if he was god. Half-jokingly.

Others joined. Young children in colorful, handmade jumpers. They seemed to be there without parents. Middle-aged Indian men dressed in sacred garb. They seemed to be there for the sake of diversity and authenticity. Older white business men, dressed only slightly less professionally on a Sunday; they retained their weekday lives via designer lenses and bulky silver watches. They seemed to be there to remedy their material wants. A few older, sinewy, hippy women dressed in clothes too stereotypical to recount. They seemed to be there to keep up the alternative shtick they chose in their 20s and now cling to for fear of change.

We danced, smelt flowers, read the Bahgavad Gita, discussed wealth, humanity, mortality. Morality. Chanted. Prayed. Washed flame over our bodies. We sat. We chuckled nervously, shut our eyes tight, opened them wide, muttered words, and belted hymns. We fasted. We feasted, though not on oreos.

Three hours passed. I felt complete. Anxious. Ready to leave. Unsettled but grounded. I was out of my element, wide-eyed and white-faced. At least she brought oreos. I brought nothing but judgement.

I rode home. I bought a diet coke and a bag of candy on the way but only because they were out of oreos. I feasted on artificial sugar, flavors, and colors. I punished and pacified myself for the judgement I brought to a space designed for none. My body is not a temple. My body is not a temple if my spirit is unclean, heart dirty, mind muddled.

hook-up culture

sunday, 8:38 am

do you want to talk about what happened last night?
cool lmk if that changes
it won't
fuck you

wednesday, 9:09 pm

can i buy you a cup of coffee?
you can buy me a god damn steak dinner
fine. when are you free?
cool fuck you
cool lmk if that changes
it won't
see you friday
you will