wit

the cake you baked will be the thing that chokes you dead.

i was supposed to bring all my friends to whitney.



it was something i thought i knew i would always do. here’s whitney, here’s whoopi, here’s hillary, here’s julie, fuck, here’s rosie or kathy.



nothing / about it / is / delusional.



it is the light — the light i will someday tell you all about; I’ve almost always seen it.



I’ve been fighting to bring back the michael korte i think i knew everyone loved. he was unidentifiably oh so different / but gleaming.



i have been so buried by every passing day. growing up and realizing you can drive yourself to hollywood but no one is there to greet you with the promise you thought you packed and the promise you thought you held. that promise is so heavy…ive had to set it down.



‘dont pray for the drugs. pray for me’. -whitney (2002).



the cake you baked will be the thing that chokes you dead. and every penny my family threw for my four years in college got me a fat diploma and a phat job slinging hamburgers and french fries. it could not be greater: the american dream. golden arches, melting. melting like a bucket of lukewarm h2o thrown on my witchy prom-ise dress. and the moment i actually think i can pick the promise right back up some bitch drops her house on my sister, steals my ruby red swag and i choke. wicked is the truth, any way you look, north south east or west.



where do i bring my friends now?


who can show me, me?

play some happy music please. go on ahead. i do not want you to drag me. i want to coast on my own. dressed in something carefree but not careless. see me go. i will catch up with you.

i will catch up with you.

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