[ some writing ]
She leans in closer.
This worn-out Timberlands, ripped jeans, smudged eyeliner kind of girl. This impossible, inevitable, inescapable kind of girl. You’re on the empty rooftop of the bar you’ve been hiding in for days, and she’s smiling at you like she can’t decide where to start. Her lips wet with drops of liquor. Slightly parted and close to your own. You’ve been hiding and running and blocking out the light, the world, the tremble of every single emotion you told yourself you wouldn’t feel anymore, but she’s right here. Closer, and looking at you, and looking at you like she wants to kiss you, and everything about your body - the angle of your hips, the clench of your fingers in the fabric of her shirt, the stutter of your pulse - is giving you away. Exposing you. Pushing you right into the magnetism of her impossible, inevitable, inescapable.
There are paintings to be made.
Somewhere under your skin you can feel the pull of the canvas, the splash of color across your fingers, dripping down your wrists. There’s an application for a school you won’t get into, a portfolio that isn’t going to paint itself. There are scholarships to think about, and your mother to deal with, and you’re not to be distracted because there is too much on the line, too much to get done, too much art left to study--
She’s a breath from your lips. Feels like you can already taste every single way she’s going to rip your heart to shreds.
--but then she closes the gap and kisses you, and if people didn’t get kissed like this, there wouldn’t be any art to study in the first place.
© 2017 // L.A.
