(no subject)
I wish I was talking about things like swamps and ponds and lost rings rushing down the miniature waterfall and into the depths of the shallow, but difficult to navigate, swimming hole where girls young enough to be shirtless fling there arms out as if trying to bust out of something. But they are too short and small and so am I. Busy having mensturation-induced anxiety on the train, anxiety that makes me think, Fuck I'm such a fucking girl, crying while exiting the subway at the wrong stop on the wrong night in this godforsaken week. My face scrunched up and wet and crying while watching someone knit and someone in all gray and some Asian girl I always see on the way home from work at 10:30 who always wears these stupid moccasins that I love (they always look brand new though she always wears them).
Overhearing, "She always tries to embarass me in front of that girl."
Having to walk to the bar a million blocks instead of just three. WHAT A GIRL! Carrying around this stupid book that will never reach you, but ALAS! tonight or maybe tomorrow or the next day it will. Carrying around two coats - TWO! One from the fence across from my apartment smelling like a little black boys laundry. One from Salvation Army, crying, YES! YES! as I slipped it on in the way of the man who was trying to re-hang jackets and coats that all of us women were flinging onto the ground as we rejected them.
Not sending the package but spending hours working intensely on it - even spending an entire afternoon on it and the one before that just thinking about it. Avoiding pronouns which would give me up, expose me, leak like blood out of a cracked skull, out of my mouth, draining into the toilet cloudy and wrong and there's that word again. WRONG. Avoiding names even more because you all know that name and don't want to hear it, never did. Naming no names. Or we (I) could take them, take names, make another black list, but still you would be coded. YOU.
The cats are lesbians and I'm sick of them and I never liked cats and I feel like a teenager who got knocked up and has not enough fingers or toes to count her regrets.
In ten days I will be watching things recede in side-view mirrors. I am a perpetual passenger and this is a good excuse. It's not up to me, I'm just the passenger. And I love you I love you I love you til I poison everything, poison your wine, my cats, our mothers, and myself. Until the killer in me has not just gotten out, but until that is all I am.
This is why a second look is useful. So I don't reveal too much. So you don't get bored.
And that's the only reason we never got sick of each other: because I don't even remember what you look like.
Overhearing, "She always tries to embarass me in front of that girl."
Having to walk to the bar a million blocks instead of just three. WHAT A GIRL! Carrying around this stupid book that will never reach you, but ALAS! tonight or maybe tomorrow or the next day it will. Carrying around two coats - TWO! One from the fence across from my apartment smelling like a little black boys laundry. One from Salvation Army, crying, YES! YES! as I slipped it on in the way of the man who was trying to re-hang jackets and coats that all of us women were flinging onto the ground as we rejected them.
Not sending the package but spending hours working intensely on it - even spending an entire afternoon on it and the one before that just thinking about it. Avoiding pronouns which would give me up, expose me, leak like blood out of a cracked skull, out of my mouth, draining into the toilet cloudy and wrong and there's that word again. WRONG. Avoiding names even more because you all know that name and don't want to hear it, never did. Naming no names. Or we (I) could take them, take names, make another black list, but still you would be coded. YOU.
The cats are lesbians and I'm sick of them and I never liked cats and I feel like a teenager who got knocked up and has not enough fingers or toes to count her regrets.
In ten days I will be watching things recede in side-view mirrors. I am a perpetual passenger and this is a good excuse. It's not up to me, I'm just the passenger. And I love you I love you I love you til I poison everything, poison your wine, my cats, our mothers, and myself. Until the killer in me has not just gotten out, but until that is all I am.
This is why a second look is useful. So I don't reveal too much. So you don't get bored.
And that's the only reason we never got sick of each other: because I don't even remember what you look like.