Long days often end in a headache for me, but Chauncey and I laughed and told truth to each other over food and smoke– this has become sacred to me.
weed
February Eighteenth, Two Thousand and Eighteen.
Breaking fresh snow with our boots and catching them on our tongues, a band in the basement with a stand-up bass, escape a little early and split a bowl on my bed– smoke reaches her fingers out the window and makes her way into the snow.
February Sixth, Two Thousand and Eighteen
Taking a break from the foster care facility’s fluorescent lights, i was sitting outside on the mossy rocks on my break by the river and crying– two teen boys offered me a rip off their bong– the world is a painful fucking place, but only because it’s so tender.
February Sixth, Two Thousand and Eighteen
Taking a break from the foster care facility’s fluorescent lights, i was sitting outside on the mossy rocks on my break by the river and crying– two teen boys offered me a rip off their bong– the world is a painful fucking place, but only because it’s so tender.
January Twenty Sixth, Two Thousand and Fifteen.
It’s been an exhausting week, so I smoke a bowl and watch sitcoms, listen to the rain drip down my windowpane, and drift into a fitful sleep.
January Seventeenth, Two Thousand and Eighteen
Smoking on the covered part of the porch, watching rain bless the ancient faces of trees, I cherish your mind full of facts, reaching for small kindnesses: our partners are bonding in the kitchen- my darling comes out holding a bloody Mary and I find it so absurd I break into that stoned bliss giggle.
Daily Words 