jennyeatsbabies.

wishinbubble asked: 1, 4, 22, 27, 35 (me because you never wrote back), 37

1 my giraffe pillow pet, this female cat that loves me but pretends she doesn’t—the smell of her fur: the ram of my computer and the orange peels in my trash can. the way i stack my books and forget which shoe is right or left: the way i am sweeter online but so bitter inside.

4 is the feel of my cat: the warmth of sheets and the smell of my father’s marlboro reds—of his stinging jaiper homme and of my mother’s screaming voice.

22 is a lot of things, but his voice before he left that morning: the way my father had woken me up but tried so hard not to—the way that i’m so glad he did. my father kissed me goodbye then, and it was the first and last kiss i’ve ever had in a long time.

27 is the feel of leather on my back, lying with my head on the seat and my knees draped over the armrests. 27 is my oldest brother’s face, but he doesn’t believe me—because he never does.

35 are crumpled letters, written in so many different hands because I couldn’t find any of myself worthy—35 will be sent, I promise, one day! And you make me laugh, and my heart warm like lilacs in the spring, Victoria I wish you’ll never change.

And 37—37 I’m still looking for.