Her Beer Tasted Of Sawdust And Foam Coated Her Boots; Nuts Were Bland And Counter Sweaty. But The Air
her beer tasted of sawdust and foam coated her boots; nuts were bland and counter sweaty. but the air was lime fresh and the night neon young and she was free.
myra.
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dear mr sandman… …
🪦🥀📽
new york, new york 🖤
“he wished being alive always felt this good”
“one should always be drunk. that’s all that matters…but with what? with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. but get drunk.”
and he sat at the oncologist waiting room as life dimmed outside
one of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night - margaret mead
“we must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest,”
ohh she’s pretty with the sunset in her hair
it was nearly 4 am as red light streamed out the bar, sifting through drunk legs. it was closing time, even in new york city.
“let me take you home,” he asked; breath smelling more metallic than his eyebrow piercing.
she smiled into his swirling eyes,
and she was never seen again.
- myra
throw ur dreams in the trash baby girl xx
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xxii | she/her | psychology & creative writing | desperately searching for meaning in the mundane
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