Yoja, brojas.

whatshouldwecallme:

jessr:

1.

i still feel the braille of your jacket in my hand from 

when i clapped you on the back of it there, there

because i didn’t know what to do with my hands 

and i didn’t know you could even hug that tight

which is to say, that you even hugged at all.

i always thought you only ever hugged your knees

or the air thick with the art school smoker’s cough of the stars

constellated over rooftops glazed with gravel that the 

back of your jacket will always recognize before it 

recognizes splayed out fingers and their 

tarnished mood rings like bells when they meet the 

nubs of copper button ends.

.

2.

there’s something disarming in the way he says goodbye: like he

doesn’t want you to leave. because i mean, we all secretly 

want each other to leave, eventually 

except sometimes when we don’t and that’s

when we squeeze just a bit harder before reducing each other to pixels.

.

his jacket is embedded into the fate line bisecting my palm. i have rivers of

denim trying to leak silt into the smirks on my skin and that’s probably why i don’t like to wear pants anymore

.

i like how stockings feel like cilantro, 

laughing under its breath into my skin.

.

there’s mesh i like to wear, like my legs are salmon 

that broke the surface of their watered down atmosphere, 

taking the nets with them because they got sick of being 

scrutinized in the deli, limp and nervous

on the dinner plate next to your crackers. 

Fuck Your Crackers

says the Salmon, blowing the ringed ghosts of cloves 

through cocktail sauce lips and into your face.

.

3.

Fish are the birds of water, they cut through the atmosphere that tadpoles inhabit by your ankles the same way birds cut through clouds of charcoal that cracked asphalt canvases sneeze into the ozone

layered with thinning membrane

.

so if salmon would wear mesh then

i bet that birds with legs ignorant to the brush 

of wind strokes and the glaze from the tops 

of cumulonimbus candycorns

would wear leopard printed nylon,

skin like the Rogue Archduke Of The Jungle.

.

There would be robins with legs fit for sock drawer spreads, 

magazines and twilit marathons through orangelit alleyways 

with rusty clutches oxidized to catch loose threads from leopard 

skin that makes it easier to cut through 

puddles of mountain dew bottle caps and 

cigarette butts like collected drops of acid rain

hungry for tadpoles.

.

robins mate for life, finding love within the buddy system,

navigating misty back alleys with whistles 

that ricochet off the copper buttons on the denim

draping the shoulders of rooftop romantics sliding down fire escapes.

.

when they return to empty nests, i like to tell myself that their chest is crimson because the Serengeti is staining their feathers from the other side. 

.

4.

when he returns to an empty kitchen, i like to tell myself that his nails

are dirty with tobacco from under the tongues of urban window boxes

that sprout mint leaves that the moonlight spills over for

 so it’s okay when he scratches too hard. 

botany and skin cells:

fertilizer where trenches used to be.

.

5.

The internet says: “Most healthy leopards prefer wild prey to humans. Injured, sickly, or struggling cats may resort to hunting humans and become habituated to it. Although usually slightly smaller than a human, an adult leopard is much more powerful and easily capable of killing them.”

In short, when in danger, the leopard can be a man-eater.

.

6.

they don’t like it when you find your spots:

.

the gazelle isn’t supposed to know 

that when provoked, it can be a man eater. 

the gazelle isn’t supposed to know 

it can pounce on its prey. the gazelle isn’t

supposed to know

that it’s not really a gazelle,

but a panther with a bird in its chest.

.

7.

I took a look at your hands once, buzzing with pixels that leaked through

the back of your phone. i could see myself there

.

if i squint into the braille of your knuckles, layered with asphalt

over membraned canvas over ricocheting pops that snap 

future power chords back into place, i can see where the 

gravel sneered into your skin like silt from the orangelit 

nostrils over back alley fire escapes.

.

we never touched hands but that’s because no one

ever knows what to do with their hands when the birds

live inside chest cavities. Leave them crossed, or knuckled into fists

waiting in your pockets for when anyone gets too close.

.

red breasted robins you can’t reach

to protect so you wear animal hyde or denim 

and you watch for rusty nails looking

to collect the rings that spot or

bounce off your skin.

.

i listen for the clink between ringed metal and nubbed copper where my fingers meet your jacket and i recognize the sound,

clipped from the oxidized clutches of the alleys 

that grab for my legs when I cut through them.

.

I know you would never lurk there, waiting to pounce

for gazelles, but there are so many that would. They

wear your jacket.

.

8.

Go to the rooftops when you can’t sleep, but remember that you can’t fly the way the wings inside your chest can. Trust me not to crush it when I hug you. Trust I won’t cage you and

I’ll trust you not to pierce your nails into my skin when you sense

the Serengeti whistling beneath it.

if-dementors-were-pink:

can we just take a moment to imagine little cute nine-year-old hermione reading matilda

and peering into this book about a smart, bookish girl who could move things with her mind

and then can you imagine her concentrating very hard on the books on the bookshelf and slowly, slowly, getting them to move