"

Iris is writing a poem while I read the paper at her apartment.
she blows a cigarette ash right into her shoe.
it doesn’t seem to bother her.

I read the poem later and it doesn’t make much sense.
then again, neither does she.
it’s Sunday and I’m at her place again.

she plays Strauss and techno on the stereo
as people drop in on her all day long.
it’s just that kind of place.
friends stop in and stay for dinner.
her roommate is dying but we don’t talk about it.

(she’s the one who fixes me when I’m falling apart
—stitches me back together with nicotine and tea)

she’s the kind of girl who can make a dress
out of a garbage bag.
she always somehow looks better than I ever will.
there’s a lot of drag queen in her.

I lend her books and give her CDs.
we borrow pens and money from each other’s bags.
we’re beyond the permission phase.

she’s not dating anyone now.
she gets crushes on guys and girls but nothing happens.

she travels to places I’ve only seen in magazines.
she’s got friends with no last names.
you can’t take a bad picture of her.
she falls out of bed and somehow looks glamorous.
I paint her toenails backstage before a show.
she’s so pretty when she smiles.

we can finish each other’s sentences.
she laughs a lot.
there’s something wrong with her
but she won’t say what it is.

she’s the only friend who hasn’t turned on me yet.
but she will.
they always do.

"

- Nicole Blackman’s Poem “Iris”  (via anartistofsorts)

(Source: hugotejano, via d3ssins)