(no subject)
dont be my friend. dont tell me what you might fear, what you really think about your sister, how you got those bruises. dont tell me anything. dont even come by my house and laugh with your mouth open. i will count your fillings and know what you find funny. i am a spiller of secrets, they plash out the sides of my mouth. writers have no ethics, if by ethics you mean respect for the lives and truths of others, and if by respect you mean leaving them alone, and if by leaving them alone you mean not ever seeing them as material. words are a currency and the lives of others an entire economy. what you know of someone else's life has one value when kept to yourself and a different value when told. one power when you shut the door behind you, lean in close to my ear, when we go to the movies together, laugh behind cinderblock buildings, send notes to each other. and then there is the power of turning your sigh into a metaphor, our car trip into a narrative with a significant ending. the power of turning you out of the inner folds of my life and into dialogue. that time when we were kids and your dad yelled at you in front of me and you didnt guard your face, which crumpled, as we would never want our faces to crumple. i saw that. it was mine. we all want to be loved, but some of us are willing to gut our lives of secrets, their moist insides stiffening and cracking in the sun, then look, like a dog for approval. some of us are willing never to live a moment again until we've inked it on the page. some of us dont know how else to live. i dont know how else to live. so dont be my friend.