Rebelle Society

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poetry

She Wishes for Things. {poetry}

And she wishes to mother her babies again, so delicious they were, and their scent, the way they smelled, like innocence, with her cheek up against, their silky, smooth cheeks so to breathe them in, to feel a tiny, flailing fist against her skin, and little eyes looking up, to feel them  ...

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house of fun

I Am Happily Imperfect.

And then, when I finish my lists and lists of tasks, I roll a big, fat doobie and smoke it by myself while I pretend to be the happiest person alive! Okay, I'm kidding, of course. I certainly don't do any of those things, but guess what? I'm still really happy. Go figure. I'm happily imperfect.

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