(no subject)
Sometimes I think that I was born to invent something that is so dirty that when you say the word for what it is your tongue becomes heavy with soot. Sometimes I think about what soot is, about how it's different from just plain dirt, and then I wonder about cinders and how that pretty little princess came to be covered and named for the blackness it lent her skin.
I wake up some mornings and I am so aware of myself I want to spit in my own face.
I wake up other mornings and I am so aware of myself, it is all I can do to stop myself from finding a hand that has never been inside of me and putting it there.
I want to suck on a strangers fingers. I want any and every part of me that has been born and has yet to die to taste what dirt and oil they have caught in the swirls of their fingertips.
I want to know what sweat tastes like on the back of a man that has never been my lover, and I want to make him taste it too.
Recently, I've been doing everything I can to get to that place where there's nothing in the world except me and it feels the way it feels to be drunk on an empty stomach after two nights without sleep.
Would you let me lay you down if I told you that some mornings, some nights, some afternoons, all I want, still, is for you to tell me to come home.
I'm in love. I'm in love. I'm in love. The only problem is I need the acute pain of heartbreak to be a person worth saving, to be a writer worth reading, to be (what was it you once said) all the me's that claw from within, that stick their fingers through the slots between my ribs in the war for the (my) heart.
All I have to do is pay my own electric bill and be kind. The other obligations are someone else's. This is not the girl I meant to be. This is not the girl I'm meant to be.
I wake up some mornings and I am so aware of myself I want to spit in my own face.
I wake up other mornings and I am so aware of myself, it is all I can do to stop myself from finding a hand that has never been inside of me and putting it there.
I want to suck on a strangers fingers. I want any and every part of me that has been born and has yet to die to taste what dirt and oil they have caught in the swirls of their fingertips.
I want to know what sweat tastes like on the back of a man that has never been my lover, and I want to make him taste it too.
Recently, I've been doing everything I can to get to that place where there's nothing in the world except me and it feels the way it feels to be drunk on an empty stomach after two nights without sleep.
Would you let me lay you down if I told you that some mornings, some nights, some afternoons, all I want, still, is for you to tell me to come home.
I'm in love. I'm in love. I'm in love. The only problem is I need the acute pain of heartbreak to be a person worth saving, to be a writer worth reading, to be (what was it you once said) all the me's that claw from within, that stick their fingers through the slots between my ribs in the war for the (my) heart.
All I have to do is pay my own electric bill and be kind. The other obligations are someone else's. This is not the girl I meant to be. This is not the girl I'm meant to be.