My friend Kait is the type of person who shows up on your fucking stoop at 3am. Smokes your weed, sleeps on your couch. Then misses the goddamn bus out in the morning.
My friend Kait is the type of person who pours whiskey into red wine and then names the new concoction after herself.
My friend Kait is the kinda girl who has “is this your first time looking at a cadaver” tattooed on her ribs.
My friend Kait is always pissing EVERYONE OFF. She makes enemies like the best heroes do. By being fantastic at what she does, and not giving away fucks for free.
Kait has lived in more states than a goddamn airforce baby. She is moving, even when still. She is a set of fan-blades. And always has been.
They poured you from saltwater, into the hollowed bowl of a lobsters back. You were the sort of girl who wouldn’t ever have been able to live a life without at least once living in New York City. You aren’t a big person. You are slight in the wrists. The biggest part of your body is what comes out of your mouth. It is a siren. A bellowing gong. A sideshow of sound and heat. You weren’t here long. You didn’t have to leave. This city just wasn’t enough for you. Your chest, in its orchestral clank, had better things to do with its thump and string.
As you move, what I need you to remember is that you must not give up the ship. When love needs loving run. Run the flatlands. Drag yourself by the knuckles through the ice to find him, whoever he is. Don’t call it chasing a man, call it a hunt. I don’t ever want to give him too much credit. He should find a new god everyday to give thanks to that you find him worth your blazing whirl If the next time, he runs to you, be there to hook yourself into him. If hes unlucky enough to ever cross you, set him on fire on the lawn. Let the men who adore you most, let the man who adores you most, let me, let me, let me, piss him into smoke.
You s-curve railway. You quadruple wing copter. You are too young to stay.. You are the babybird falling instead of flying. You musnt give a fuck about the state of the wings. Kait it is your job to pour whiskey into red wine at 3am. It is your job to smoke every last cigarette in the pack. You are only so gorgeous this once. The rest of your life will be an excersize in dying, I beg you to not waste these flashes. So many will be lost to the dragging baggage of time. Your body is 21 and full of fuck and fight and swing and slug. Your heart is a funeral wreath. It is an older thing. One that knows what love looks like. The pulsing mouth of the squid. The bloody fist in the middle of the storm of your hair and skin and voice. Your heart is a house on fire. Its windows have been beat from its wood. Its shingles are spinning in the driveway.
Kait I pray for five daughters just like you. I pray I spend the rest of my life telling everyone who knows them that there is no sense in chasing after them. These girls are the best of what breathing allows. The proud devils. The shameless, howling dogs of the wood. I pray each of them could take a piece of you.
Let one be loyal to the grave. The cast-iron cloud above the roof of her loved ones. Let one be fearless. Let her voice be a thunking bell. Let her throat clang in a ring of giants. May one be drunk. May she always be drunk. Let her slake in the sands. Let her two-fist her twenties till the glass bleeds. Let one be talented. Let her be born with bounty. Let even one finger on her blessed hands know how to do the things every cell of you was composed to do. Let her life be the sheet music to a joyfull sound. And may the last one love. May she love without apology. May she love today what she buries in the morning. Let her love the shovel. Let her be unafraid to fuck and be fucked and turn the men who do her wrong into salt. Let her turn them into mud. Make poems of them and pour each syllable across their brow.
Let any of my daughter be any of you. I will not chase them. This is the most I can ask of my descendants. Splintered fifths of you. I am never prouder than I am every time you open your mouth. I have had no hand in your unfolding. But have been a grateful bystander, blessed and awed by all you have made of yourself. You are hands of clay, sculpting your own body of out a hillside.
i am locked in my house.
the front door has decided to cease functioning.
fritz leapt from the second story window in order to get to work.
i am not leaping from anything.
landlord(s) not answering phones.
this should be an interesting day.