I don't want to age. I don't want to get older; I don't want to have what comes with age. I don't want to have wrinkles, I don't want to lose my beauty, eyesight, my hearing, my sense of flavour and exploration. I don't want to get comfortable and I never want to get weaker than I already am.

Most of all I don't want to gain any wisdom; I want to continue down the spiraling path of self-destruction and use my youthful ignorance as an excuse for the way I'm acting. Because I don't think I'll get better with age and people can only excuse it for so long.

I. Clawing inside the walls of my stomach it hurts too good I don't get out of bed to feed it but if I move it stops for a bit I love feeling empty when I first wake up it feels clean and pure nothing has corrupted my body yet and there's nothing in it making it harder to breathe or think

II. This sunburn is reminding me of all the times my brain wanted me to peel my skin off. I always caught myself right before it was too late but it never leaves.

III. I ate something and my sunburn is almost healed but the thoughts still visit from time to time.

Wanted :

Silk Pillow Case

Thrasher T-Shirt

Lingerie

"She knew she was beautiful. She used it advantageously, bending the wills of people because she knew that everyone loved and hated to see a pretty girl pouting."

Lesley Gore playing in the background, because I'm so obsessed with the sixties. Mad Men are angry at me because I use my gifts, and I guess I see why they don't appreciate it. I promise I didn't mean to be manipulative, I just really wanted you to buy me the silk pillowcase case, lingerie, and Thrasher T-shirt from my Amazon wishlist.

Pretty please?

Your father was raised in Panama. I can imagine him vividly... The floral silk shirt with velvety red cravat, tan leather loafers, waxed-to-perfection moustache, and a big cigar. It was the late sixties and he was beautiful. I've never seen a photo but I can tell by the way you talked about him. His joi de vivre oozed into your stories and I recognized it: the distilled essence of his elegance was passed to you, and you shared it with me.

We met by our mutual attraction for showing off... I wanted to be treated like a delicate porcelain treasure - you wanted a plastic toy with the price tag of an heirloom. Twenty five years my senior and you still hadn't learned your lesson about girls like me... I may have broken your heart, but you should've known a tryst between the free-spirited edge of seventeen and a businessman with dreams of Panama would burn out in the end, just like your father's cigar.

It's duller now

I only see you in my suggested friends list... or in tagged posts.

Or in your sister's comment threads.

But I still remember when seeing you on my timeline made me burn up. At first it was ginger, spicy and sweet. Talking to you made me feel like I had the universe in my head; probably because you told me you were studying the string theory and you knew how stars formed.

After a while I didn't feel a burn anymore. I didn't feel anything in my head except empty and I didn't know how to remedy it, except by putting all of myself towards keeping you from feeling the same. I lost myself; you found me, absorbed my strength, and said you had none to give back when I needed it.

The night you tried to kill yourself wasn't ginger, cayenne, or even the weak sting of crushed black pepper. It was pure peppermint oil: molten silver and acidic. I have no other words for it. It hurt almost as bad as when, after weeks of not knowing if you were dead or alive, you texted me.

"So, your cousin is pretty amazing... we've only been talking a week but I think I'm in love with her?"

That was cayenne...

But now I guess I've built up a tolerance.

Snapchat me at 11 pm

Are you drunk for courage or for remission?

"I like you"

"You're beautiful"

"I want to fuck you"

You say, "call me" and we talk until 3am because I think I like you too and mostly because I know, we know, we're both so lonely.

It seems like you only talk to me when you're drunk but my mind tells me it's better than being ignored, like after Halloween when you moved to a new table. I thought it was the kiss and I still don't know if you remember or if you just pretended to forget. I remember, because you don't forget cinnamon liquor - like your skin, warm and bright.

I left town last week and you snapchatted me saying you missed me, at 3am again, in my new bed. You're leaving in August and I'm scared. Because I'll miss you too.

In the dream we were in a hotel in New York. We were walking in tandem towards a really tall glass elevator. We got in and went up to the hotel room; we were both carrying powder blue suit cases and the same expression. He unlocked the door, outside the room the carpet was plush and forest green. Keys jangle, tumblers fall, cut to us in the bathroom. Him on the toilet, dressed in tuxedo pants and a Hawaiian shirt, head in his hands looking tired. Me in the tub, the water is transparent purple and the floors are marble. I say something: inaudible. He slips out the tiny white box and shakes one, two, three times - always. A thin cigarette shimmies out of cardboard, into his hand, into mine and finally he lights it. Smoke curls up like a cliche and we do that until it's gone. We both know it's over, but the audience... The audience knows he's found the girl he wanted. She's got strawberry hair and only listens to Bright eyes. Who is she? Stage left, pan to elevator door sliding open and he's leaving. He's got his powder blue and baby pink beside him and I'm still in the tub with the ashes.