surrounded by stories, surreal and sublime

I’ve gotten to this place where I feel most alone in small groups and lying in bed with him, paining for him to wake up, staring at him, questioning my place in the world. There is a giant vat of emptiness in my chest, a cylinder of translucent nothingness that can momentarily be filled by kisses or whipped topping but so easily is completely empty, resounding with echoes. The curliness of my handwriting seems to change daily similarly to the ideas of my future. It’s too much to question future at this time in my mind and yet it’s the only question I am asked daily. So I’ll put on some pink sparkly eye shadow and hide behind Minnie Mouse sized eyelashes so no one but strangers can see how deep it has all become. I wanted my hair to look like that of a pixie and yet my thighs would never fit beneath her delicately jagged skirt. Maybe I am living in renaissance fairly tales for the only thing that makes sense is running away to Paris. To hide among pastries and stripes, to sit under the Eiffel tower in the hot summer sun waiting on brief rain clouds. I want to wake up in satin hotel sheets, in all my loneliness, only to glide out onto a terrace to be surrounded by words I may never know the meaning of. Instead I make him tell me bedtime stories.