i'm distorted in your radio frequencies.
Saw Virginia today. Was beautiful. The day and the girl.
On the metro (wholly digested in the bowels of the beast) but I poledanced for strangers and got twenty dollars. I want to fuck you like an animal, my whole existence is flawed. Am unhappily convinced this person followed me up the stairs just to look up my skirt (of the two escalators, I took the broken one). Am I an object which exists solely to be looked at in disgusting ways?
"No one understands you," says Mama. "Maybe when you get older you will meet like-minded individuals." Like-minded, like those times when all those artists and writers got together at the cafes and on the continents and they didn't always agree but they understood, could imagine, and it was enough. Maybe I will change so I think like the non-understanders do. Maybe I can be made into that. The truth though is that I think someone forgot to invite me to tea.
"You can't go through life letting people decide if you're good enough or not." I'm tired of it, Mother. It is tiring having no friends I care enough about. I hate how the friends I do care about don't care about me. A disconnect, Mother. It's funny how you're just one generation removed and it's like you're two entirely different people. The apple and the tree but maybe we're some other kind of tree. A tree without fruit. Or maybe I was packaged up and sent so far away that the consumers won't ever know where I even came from.
Mama and Daddy leave tomorrow. She, the spider, takes he, her lawfully wedded husband, to her lair to dismantle or possibly dismember him. Sucking the life out of everything. But she can't have me. I got away.
Something happened. Things are bound to happen. For reasons, maybe. Or not.
This is perhaps a change of direction for me (M to Wisconsin to O) and maybe I won't get lost. Maybe I'm getting unlost. Maybe if I walk a little faster, but I've been going so fast all my life. I recently turned forty-seven and at this rate I'll die at twenty-one. Blisters on my feet but I can't ever change my shoes.
I'd like to begin again, please. Somewhat. I wouldn't undo it. I know better. Just take what's still here and not be your lame emo teenager that you see me as and which I might actually be. It's our perceptions, since the exact nature of reality is at times debatable. I can't pretend that I'm not altered. I'm not who and what I might be otherwise. Maybe I'm something I couldn't have been before. I went into the bathroom in the basement and I imagined the spiders and the bugs and the worms crawling out from behind the toilet onto my skin and up my legs to fill the space and I was wholly guilty of its vacancy but I was still very afraid. It'll be me someday and maybe then he'll forgive me and we can finally rest.
Maybe it will rain tonight and we can all go dancing. Let's hope for that. Will you go dancing with me, when it does get around to raining? I'll wait.
On the metro (wholly digested in the bowels of the beast) but I poledanced for strangers and got twenty dollars. I want to fuck you like an animal, my whole existence is flawed. Am unhappily convinced this person followed me up the stairs just to look up my skirt (of the two escalators, I took the broken one). Am I an object which exists solely to be looked at in disgusting ways?
"No one understands you," says Mama. "Maybe when you get older you will meet like-minded individuals." Like-minded, like those times when all those artists and writers got together at the cafes and on the continents and they didn't always agree but they understood, could imagine, and it was enough. Maybe I will change so I think like the non-understanders do. Maybe I can be made into that. The truth though is that I think someone forgot to invite me to tea.
"You can't go through life letting people decide if you're good enough or not." I'm tired of it, Mother. It is tiring having no friends I care enough about. I hate how the friends I do care about don't care about me. A disconnect, Mother. It's funny how you're just one generation removed and it's like you're two entirely different people. The apple and the tree but maybe we're some other kind of tree. A tree without fruit. Or maybe I was packaged up and sent so far away that the consumers won't ever know where I even came from.
Mama and Daddy leave tomorrow. She, the spider, takes he, her lawfully wedded husband, to her lair to dismantle or possibly dismember him. Sucking the life out of everything. But she can't have me. I got away.
Something happened. Things are bound to happen. For reasons, maybe. Or not.
This is perhaps a change of direction for me (M to Wisconsin to O) and maybe I won't get lost. Maybe I'm getting unlost. Maybe if I walk a little faster, but I've been going so fast all my life. I recently turned forty-seven and at this rate I'll die at twenty-one. Blisters on my feet but I can't ever change my shoes.
I'd like to begin again, please. Somewhat. I wouldn't undo it. I know better. Just take what's still here and not be your lame emo teenager that you see me as and which I might actually be. It's our perceptions, since the exact nature of reality is at times debatable. I can't pretend that I'm not altered. I'm not who and what I might be otherwise. Maybe I'm something I couldn't have been before. I went into the bathroom in the basement and I imagined the spiders and the bugs and the worms crawling out from behind the toilet onto my skin and up my legs to fill the space and I was wholly guilty of its vacancy but I was still very afraid. It'll be me someday and maybe then he'll forgive me and we can finally rest.
Maybe it will rain tonight and we can all go dancing. Let's hope for that. Will you go dancing with me, when it does get around to raining? I'll wait.