i got my winter, upstairs at uncle joe’s
there is something kind of comforting, breathable, about the smell of winter clothing, wrapped up in boxes for some other people.
today i broke free, but in ways I can’t explain. Sometimes I am slow. Most of the time I am sharper than the ring of the valve.
What makes someone hold that magical space? Most of the time I deal with people whose magical spaces are filled with other words, whispers, names. Close to that crackle that is fucked up in me.
I need to keep journals, like that kid, whose book I have. scrap book bitten by africa, painted in blood.
things would be very interesting then if nothing else.
i joined match.com. partly because bme internet relations are a bit ridiculous.
don’t let anyone fool you, girls. the men are fucking desperate to at least entertain us with meaningless jabber, then enclosing pictures of a swollen 47 year old belly. they will never know the me they will never be free they will never fucking be.
the end.
and then some.
p.s. me with no makeup the days i don’t give a fuck. which is everyday, actually.
thin thinness my lips lend
swollen like they can’t even get enough
yours pounding in like a fucking
freight train. ready to steal that breath
away from my entwined eyes
I like the idea, missing, going far away
missing. recieve the receipt
I like the idea, falling
sweat driven bodies waking fresh from the nap at 8 a.m.
scared by it’s ability
I won’t walk, I’ll run.
breath trailing in crepe paper dreams
