Bernice bobs her hair / I can't believe you.
A man sending five hundred and ninety dollars to Senegal tells me that he sees me all the time and that I am quiet, where can he get a quiet girl like me? He likes quiet girls, he says, and then he pauses and says that it is because he is quiet, too. Do I have a boyfriend? Yes. Where can he get a quiet girl like me?
It kind of infuriated me. You want a quiet girl, eh? How revolutionary of you.
Four hours later, I'm sitting on the roof talking to Isaac and listening to sirens and my stomach is aching for this boy three hours in the past and in another country. I have these guts all of a sudden and I tell him that I am good to him, and this makes me feel full of myself [and I know I have this front, I know I say my name more than you say your name, but it's only because I'm afraid of your forgetting it and calling me "Livia." (It's happened).] but it's true. I haven't been the best person to a lot of people, but I am good to this far-away boy and I am good to a lot of people now. Not even a year has gone by and I have changed [haven't I?]. I tell him to take care of himself and I mean every word, every syllable a wish. I feel strong and detached. Loving but not clutch. Possibly too much, but not afraid of it, because I don't need anything anymore. Roses blooming out of hearts, kitsch Virgin Marys, wishes, faux Weetzie Bat.
And I am trying not to be an angry girl, but the truth is that I'm no longer a very sympathetic woman.
I am painting a girl and an octopus with matching "Best Friends" necklaces for Stephanie. I don't know how it will make it to Chicago. It is big.
My life has stopped making sense, but my heart feels pretty pure rockin' all right warm.
My life & I, My wife & I.
Here's how my words work -- if you don't know what's going on, I'm not saying enough. If you know what is going on, I'm saying too much. I'm nervy. I'm not sorry.
I hope you all are well.
It kind of infuriated me. You want a quiet girl, eh? How revolutionary of you.
Four hours later, I'm sitting on the roof talking to Isaac and listening to sirens and my stomach is aching for this boy three hours in the past and in another country. I have these guts all of a sudden and I tell him that I am good to him, and this makes me feel full of myself [and I know I have this front, I know I say my name more than you say your name, but it's only because I'm afraid of your forgetting it and calling me "Livia." (It's happened).] but it's true. I haven't been the best person to a lot of people, but I am good to this far-away boy and I am good to a lot of people now. Not even a year has gone by and I have changed [haven't I?]. I tell him to take care of himself and I mean every word, every syllable a wish. I feel strong and detached. Loving but not clutch. Possibly too much, but not afraid of it, because I don't need anything anymore. Roses blooming out of hearts, kitsch Virgin Marys, wishes, faux Weetzie Bat.
And I am trying not to be an angry girl, but the truth is that I'm no longer a very sympathetic woman.
I am painting a girl and an octopus with matching "Best Friends" necklaces for Stephanie. I don't know how it will make it to Chicago. It is big.
My life has stopped making sense, but my heart feels pretty pure rockin' all right warm.
My life & I, My wife & I.
Here's how my words work -- if you don't know what's going on, I'm not saying enough. If you know what is going on, I'm saying too much. I'm nervy. I'm not sorry.
I hope you all are well.