YAY MY HAIR IS GONE!

I look like a cigarette factory girl from the 1940’s carmen jones. 

AH LUV AHT.

Good Fucking bye, you seven inches of dead ends, 2011, and self hatred!

as a young singer, I even bother wasting my time and money going up against graduate students in popular voice studios who are so much more experienced, and older and more advantaged than I.

Why? It’s just always going to lead for disappointment.

I’m trying to keep my spirits up enough to force myself to finish the last of my summer program application, but my heart is telling me “why bother? Wait a few years until your voice is actually worth it’s salt.”

I love singing. But I hate this.

But trust me to be completely inconsolable about a cycle of songs.

But really, there’s no success in trying to feel happy at the very moment.

my entire soul, wrapped in the delicate tissue paper of those songs

and it still wasn’t good enough.

But waiting to hear back about this voice concerto competition is killing me.

-So please stop asking me to sing shit at your dinner parties, cunts. I’m not a monkey to your drunken hurdy-gurdy.

I’ve prepared and learned and sung all that I can.

It’s not in my hands anymore.

With my hair.

I feel this awful need to either CHOP IT ALL OFF

or change the color.

But I love the color, and the length (in fact, I want it longer…)

WAH, what to do?

The night would speak to me the way

a lit screen could speak,

if it had a mouth and lips like yours.

as I write to you the screen across the sky lit by nothing

but my speaking selves, and thinking selves

and yourself; 

I write a story, and it is one that isn’t told yet,

but is just waiting to be played on a great stage with 

the most beautiful actors and actresses,

with costumes and lights and no audience to speak of.

You would lay me on a floor

or in water,

in the sea

and you would touch me 

but touch me better, infinitely better

than the cold floor tickling my sides

the sea licking my feet

and the breath you give to me skin

 seconds before

it’s taken away.

you would cuckoo and hide yourself 

in each orifice of mine

until the lazy elder in my mind

finally would like the no vacancy sign.

you keep your whole self hidden in me,

and we would carry each other across the biggest expanses

of pleasure and of vices that are more wanted than they are necessary.

You take my hand, and you lead me past desires,

past pure wants,

and to need and to hunger and thirst,

so that when I touch you I don’t know how else to feed

the fire crackling in my belly.