georgia says you're never coming back
Anonymous: So the only reason you write is because everything you wish you could be doing, you can't do so you just settled with writing? I don't understand how that is true passion.

not the only reason lmaooo. i never had any interest in dance or acting. i write because it’s my art form, it’s my way of expressing myself. i loved it when i was shitty at it and i love it now when i’m still shitty but not as shitty and i’ll love it when im like 98 and i cant even remember my last name anymore.

1 week ago | 15 notes
Anonymous: Would you critique a new writer?

i’d critique anyone who asked for it. 

1 week ago | 4 notes
Anonymous: what are you doing this summer?

getting a job, maybe two jobs, writing, hanging out w/ the friends i grew up with before we go to college and forget each other and meet new people and change and i’m terrified of it all ending i don’t know what to do w/ myself when i think of where i’ll be in five months i’ll be separate from everything i’ve ever known

1 week ago | 6 notes
Anonymous: when is the summer workshop for wtr? (like what are the dates)

july 1st-august 15th

i’ll be releasing more info very soon!! (this saturday i’ll open up applications woo)

1 week ago | 2 notes
Anonymous: what are you listening to rn

chance the rapper’s acidrap album

so gud ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh cocoa butter kisses KILLS me also lost UGDjsfdlkds i cannot so beautiful such good writing UGH

1 week ago | 5 notes
Anonymous: Why do you write

because i’m not good at visual art, i’m a shit actor, i can’t dance for shit, i can barely sing and i need a way of expressing myself or else i’d explode.

i just really like words and writing and lyrics and plays and poems and line breaks and clever word play and imagery and the ability to make someone feel with words on a piece of paper like what ugh i love writing

1 week ago | 13 notes

I put the daisies you gave me in the walk in
freezer out back. Splayed over bagged chicken
cutlets, racks of ribs, they became small.

The entire room hummed, loud at night,
when the shop became something of a museum.
My father’s apron hung on a crooked nail. The gutted
bodies of cows, lambs hanging upside down by their ankles.

Flanks of meat waxy and wan. Upstairs,
my mother asleep and alone in bed.
My father on the other side of this city,
in that Colombian woman’s home,

washing his hands of blood and other guilts.
And you and I, kissing grey and soft, starving
slowly among all we had.

1 week ago | 130 notes
The Butcher Shop on 42nd Street and 9th.

I put the daisies you gave me in the walk in
freezer out back. Splayed over bagged chicken
cutlets, racks of ribs, they became small.

The entire room hummed, loud at night,
when the shop became something of a museum.
My father’s apron hung on a crooked nail. The gutted
bodies of cows, lambs hanging upside down by their ankles.

Flanks of meat waxy and wan. Upstairs,
my mother asleep and alone in bed.
My father on the other side of this city,
in that Colombian woman’s home,

washing his hands of blood and other guilts.
And you and I, kissing grey and soft, starving
slowly among all we had.

1 week ago | 130 notes
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