Your shoulder-blades are waiting wings.

you're mine in the way that the dips of your hips fit my hands perfectly, thumbs pressed tight to feel the blood pulse in you. and i'm the only one holding you up and in and together.

You give the prompt, I'll take the picture.

C'mon. Let's play.

I figured with all the band/singing talk, I should either put up or shut up, you know?

So I got up at the asscrack of dawn yesterday morning (ok, lies. I never actually went to bed) and recorded myself. Then I converted the vid to mp3, redownloaded that, and then uploaded the file to sendspace.

I'm explaining this so that you realize that I had ample time to realize that this is a really really bad idea. (Also, it's not the best quality.) 

And yet I'm doing this anyway!

Here's a little bit of me killing a song: http://www.nothereanymore.com

I was going to sing one of my own, but I always feel like a dork doing that for some reason. *shrug* So you get... well, you'll hear :) Lucky you. o/

And now, class, we know why Laguisity has exiled herself to the land of tambourines and cowbells.

and dropped down.

caught with albatross wings.

high soaring and asleep for days.

crash landings make the ground seem softer.

where you cracked the earth,

it cracked your bones.

It's kind of a reoccuring theme with me. That's what happens when you're crazy.

I think I need a roadtrip.

Who wants to start a band with me?

We'll be street performers, and take over the world accidentally on purpose with our catchy melodic jams.

 I play a mean tambourine.

Streams of smoke and razor sharp intentions fit to shred your lungs.

We'll leave your every breath bloodied, and this time your words will stick.

 Stain the back of your throat.

Red to match your lips and hands and the rims of your eyes.

(There's a water wish in every drop that slips down your cheeks.)

 We're your music box dancers, twirling to the backward beat of your chicken heart. Blood clot fingers clinging to black strands to twist a cradle for you to fall in.