vanilla tea vol IIthe blue issue

A lot of them take drugs because they feel broken, sad, crippled, unfairly blue, can't sleep, weak-kneed,

circumstances unforeseen. The Vivian Girls stay underneath. Leanne, I love your dark drawings. I nailed them to

my door. Einslyn, the exclamation mark I printed on the !oor. I'm singing now in a new band with Slick and Stevie

Door. You knew Nazis left your keys in the canyon. You tripped, you burst, your heart's a lion. Your rainbow is not

digni"ed. Your birthday cake is on my lap. We're singing songs. The journey's long. I won't be here before much

more.

Sometimes love is me with moth wings, me as a moth in the middle of your hands in the middle of the room and you whispering 'don't be afraid.' You, love, lighting up my new antenna, lighting up my heart as our backs breathe against each other. Sometimes I speak and the taste in my mouth refuses to convey with accuracy that piece of snow with no footprints. Maybe love is how many footprints we can put in the snow around the snow with no footprints. I'm digging my feet into your cold feet saying 'let's start dying' though that sounds morbid of me. Really it's the same thing as 'let's start living' but this way holds more urgency. I keep breathing in !utters on your fullstop skin and you cup my head in your hands. In your pocket is a "eld map detailing all the places I found you in the snow. There isn't one part of me that doesn't swell in oceans then melt too-large at the touch of you. When I'm alone in a room my bones hold me gently into place. My head is a spinning !ower on the mountaintop. The trees slowly melt my heart.

Sometimes love is me with moth wings, me as a moth in the middle of your hands in the middle of the room and you whispering 'don't be afraid.' You, love, lighting up my new antenna, lighting up my heart as our backs breathe against each other. Sometimes I speak and the taste in my mouth refuses to convey with accuracy that piece of snow with no footprints. Maybe love is how many footprints we can put in the snow around the snow with no footprints. I'm digging my feet into your cold feet saying 'let's start dying' though that sounds morbid of me. Really it's the same thing as 'let's start living' but this way holds more urgency. I keep breathing in !utters on your fullstop skin and you cup my head in your hands. In your pocket is a "eld map detailing all the places I found you in the snow. There isn't one part of me that doesn't swell in oceans then melt too-large at the touch of you. When I'm alone in a room my bones hold me gently into place. My head is a spinning !ower on the mountaintop. The trees slowly melt my heart.

Sometimes love is me with moth wings, me as a moth in the middle of your hands in the middle of the room and you whispering 'don't be afraid.' You, love, lighting up my new antenna, lighting up my heart as our backs breathe against each other. Sometimes I speak and the taste in my mouth refuses to convey with accuracy that piece of snow with no footprints. Maybe love is how many footprints we can put in the snow around the snow with no footprints. I'm digging my feet into your cold feet saying 'let's start dying' though that sounds morbid of me. Really it's the same thing as 'let's start living' but this way holds more urgency. I keep breathing in !utters on your fullstop skin and you cup my head in your hands. In your pocket is a "eld map detailing all the places I found you in the snow. There isn't one part of me that doesn't swell in oceans then melt too-large at the touch of you. When I'm alone in a room my bones hold me gently into place. My head is a spinning !ower on the mountaintop. The trees slowly melt my heart.

Sometimes love is me with moth wings, me as a moth in the middle of your hands in the middle of the room and you whispering 'don't be afraid.' You, love, lighting up my new antenna, lighting up my heart as our backs breathe against each other. Sometimes I speak and the taste in my mouth refuses to convey with accuracy that piece of snow with no footprints. Maybe love is how many footprints we can put in the snow around the snow with no footprints. I'm digging my feet into your cold feet saying 'let's start dying' though that sounds morbid of me. Really it's the same thing as 'let's start living' but this way holds more urgency. I keep breathing in !utters on your fullstop skin and you cup my head in your hands. In your pocket is a "eld map detailing all the places I found you in the snow. There isn't one part of me that doesn't swell in oceans then melt too-large at the touch of you. When I'm alone in a room my bones hold me gently into place. My head is a spinning !ower on the mountaintop. The trees slowly melt my heart.

my heart jumped out of my chest and painted portraits for you. my heart was never the bird in the cage. did you know that because of atoms we can never really touch anything how we mean when we use the word 'touch'. there is more space than there isn't space. i touch you and my skin does not become your skin. i keep thinking about your skin and my skin together but not touching. i keep trying to coax my heart back behind bones with bits of krispie biscuits. sometimes it says 'i don't want you because of that whole year you thought you were choking on something.' my lungs are too cold because of empty space. i write in lowercase because capital letters indicate starting something which indicates "nishing something which indicates room for error. i want to fold my bones into an origami swan. i am someone that could be someone if i stopped thinking about being someone. your skin is like the horizon line postcard i always carry around with me. if i were a postcard i would know where to "nish because i would just run out of room.

my heart jumped out of my chest and painted portraits for you. my heart was never the bird in the cage. did you know that because of atoms we can never really touch anything how we mean when we use the word 'touch'. there is more space than there isn't space. i touch you and my skin does not become your skin. i keep thinking about your skin and my skin together but not touching. i keep trying to coax my heart back behind bones with bits of krispie biscuits. sometimes it says 'i don't want you because of that whole year you thought you were choking on something.' my lungs are too cold because of empty space. i write in lowercase because capital letters indicate starting something which indicates "nishing something which indicates room for error. i want to fold my bones into an origami swan. i am someone that could be someone if i stopped thinking about being someone. your skin is like the horizon line postcard i always carry around with me. if i were a postcard i would know where to "nish because i would just run out of room.

my heart jumped out of my chest and painted portraits for you. my heart was never the bird in the cage. did you know that because of atoms we can never really touch anything how we mean when we use the word 'touch'. there is more space than there isn't space. i touch you and my skin does not become your skin. i keep thinking about your skin and my skin together but not touching. i keep trying to coax my heart back behind bones with bits of krispie biscuits. sometimes it says 'i don't want you because of that whole year you thought you were choking on something.' my lungs are too cold because of empty space. i write in lowercase because capital letters indicate starting something which indicates "nishing something which indicates room for error. i want to fold my bones into an origami swan. i am someone that could be someone if i stopped thinking about being someone. your skin is like the horizon line postcard i always carry around with me. if i were a postcard i would know where to "nish because i would just run out of room.

my heart jumped out of my chest and painted portraits for you. my heart was never the bird in the cage. did you know that because of atoms we can never really touch anything how we mean when we use the word 'touch'. there is more space than there isn't space. i touch you and my skin does not become your skin. i keep thinking about your skin and my skin together but not touching. i keep trying to coax my heart back behind bones with bits of krispie biscuits. sometimes it says 'i don't want you because of that whole year you thought you were choking on something.' my lungs are too cold because of empty space. i write in lowercase because capital letters indicate starting something which indicates "nishing something which indicates room for error. i want to fold my bones into an origami swan. i am someone that could be someone if i stopped thinking about being someone. your skin is like the horizon line postcard i always carry around with me. if i were a postcard i would know where to "nish because i would just run out of room.

don’t tell my story awake.

Your hands are like cherry trees or patterned glass bowls with lids on them. When we go outside you put gloves on so I want to stay in all winter. At the ballet the girls look like twirling cakes behind a bakery window and I say "Isn't it terrible/isn't it terribly sweet/isn't it beautiful how they have to stop some time?" Then the dancers get shut up in boxes or eaten and you have to agree with me. We get home and I hide your gloves in the stem of the armchair. You hide my hair behind my ears and we make adagio under the sheets. We throw our thoughts against the wall and consider them as paintings but then our eyes are falling and that means the day is past now, that means our heads are closed journals, that means our hands are waiting inkwells. I write our names in the margins and draw a heart around them. Our heads are windproof gloves, our heads are trees where the roots have to end somewhere. I will give birth to a beautiful baby girl and wish that she had a second set of baby teeth. One day you will whisper "My knuckles are erupting volcanoes that will turn us into fossils." After, a museum will open for us that has never heard of us. A boy will walk through the heavy doors because he dreamt the same feeling. Someone called Death will smile and congratulate himself in the halls at the mention of 'boxes' and 'gloves' because it was his idea to put an ultimate limit on things. It was his idea, then he watched us invent years, weeks, minutes, seconds and the word 'bittersweet'.

the endcargocollective.com/kelseyipsen