Writer's Camp day 2.
Here is another little bit of that thing I'm working on.
When we were picking out the sofa for our first apartment you chose one the color of my childhood curls. That day I paid $900 dollars on proof you love me. I worried for a solid month what your filthy slippers would do to the upholstery. We had brown spots within thirty days. You know I held back my neurosis to impress you-didn’t spot clean or pull out my club soda at all in the first year. I didn’t even mention it in fights, though you knew I said, “I hate you” with the slightest edge of sincerity. The third year, our twenty-sixth, was the hardest year. With the removal of extended cable and luxuries came the exchange of love making for fucking. You forgot my birthday. I wrapped the Christmas presents in our red stained want ads. Then came a storm of promotions, and proper medications, the ability to pay for vices-we were cleansed. The morning after the first time you touched me again, the sidewalks smelled like dead worms and dew. We reigned again. I went back on the pill, only to go off on your whim. So here we are, year twenty-seven. The answering machine was blinking when we walked in the door this evening. Another you. Another you will be in my arms soon.
But how much can my heart hold? How could I possibly split this feeling I have for you with some other human being? I fear he will have my smile, my sense of space, my nose, hair, ears, or toes. What could be worse than producing another me? He would be too tall, too noisy, too curious, too masochistic. It would be considered unusual punishment in a court of life. “How could you reproduce being fully aware of who you are?” I might plea insanity; they’d take the baby away too. I might tell them the truth-I don’t want another me. I’m the last thing I need.
Your hair would look frightful on a child. He’ll learn to swear by the age of three. Bikes are for wusses, we run. Can a baby be born with your knobby knuckles?
When we were picking out the sofa for our first apartment you chose one the color of my childhood curls. That day I paid $900 dollars on proof you love me. I worried for a solid month what your filthy slippers would do to the upholstery. We had brown spots within thirty days. You know I held back my neurosis to impress you-didn’t spot clean or pull out my club soda at all in the first year. I didn’t even mention it in fights, though you knew I said, “I hate you” with the slightest edge of sincerity. The third year, our twenty-sixth, was the hardest year. With the removal of extended cable and luxuries came the exchange of love making for fucking. You forgot my birthday. I wrapped the Christmas presents in our red stained want ads. Then came a storm of promotions, and proper medications, the ability to pay for vices-we were cleansed. The morning after the first time you touched me again, the sidewalks smelled like dead worms and dew. We reigned again. I went back on the pill, only to go off on your whim. So here we are, year twenty-seven. The answering machine was blinking when we walked in the door this evening. Another you. Another you will be in my arms soon.
But how much can my heart hold? How could I possibly split this feeling I have for you with some other human being? I fear he will have my smile, my sense of space, my nose, hair, ears, or toes. What could be worse than producing another me? He would be too tall, too noisy, too curious, too masochistic. It would be considered unusual punishment in a court of life. “How could you reproduce being fully aware of who you are?” I might plea insanity; they’d take the baby away too. I might tell them the truth-I don’t want another me. I’m the last thing I need.
Your hair would look frightful on a child. He’ll learn to swear by the age of three. Bikes are for wusses, we run. Can a baby be born with your knobby knuckles?