your endless cock; dark stranger who is suave and doesn't say a word more than he needs to. the man. and i am but a girl. paranoid in my dress. the metro system is a nightmare and boyfriends cannot be trusted. my mouth hangs open at 5 am. i can hear the morning prayer in one ear. if there is a god, he is hungry. 11:28
read:
her body and other parties, Carmen Maria Machado
read:
the husband stitch, Carmen Maria Machado
attempting to write a letter for a friend. part of a birthday thing. 12 of us but it's her eighteenth birthday and should there not be eighteen letters then? it's okay, we ball, i suppose? but what do i do? because i love her but have no memories of her; she is my friend of years yet i don't know what the first word is. i don't know what the tone of the letter is. we will always be friends yet i wouldn't mind if i never saw her again. write write write! i'll fake it till i make it, i guess. 11:35
female friendships that feel like marriages of compromise (heart eyes emoji x3). just can't let go. cherishing every good moment and scribbling with tired eyes about the bad ones in pages torn out of notebooks, to be thrown out later, so you don't remember just how much they fucking stung. i love you but i could do with a few decades without seeing your face. 12:14
labor of love; a pink paper butterfly. my rounded black script. your handwriting is shit because your brain works too fast, a friend once told me. i sometimes, most of the time, hate her. ahead by a century. we are. 13:22
i can write loving, but cannot feel it. i can take praise but only for myself. i can hold loving in my hands, mold it between my fingers,
but i can never keep it, can never let it stay, can never be at peace with it, give it space. 4:14
i recall when someone said i was mesmerizing and that was my appeal. i ask now, to myself, to whoever is listening, what about me is fucking mesmerizing. what part of this neurotic crazed little life of mine is mesmerizing. what part is the glamorous one. what part is the fucking appeal? my fingertips are stained silver black from crazed face-making in a notebook i stole from a small stationary shop. what is fucking mesmerizing. i drink bitterness and function on revenge. what is fucking mesmerizing. what draws you in. when i am nearly a hermit, sat behind my closed doors, blatant refusal to let anyone in, no matter how kind of a smile they have. what about me is fucking mesmerizing. i never understood that. if you know nothing about me, simply say so. don't try to draw a shroud of fog around me and paint me to be a fucking mystery when there is nothing mysterious about an unstable seventeen year old female at all. it is the most known thing in the world. 4:52
listen:
seven swans, Sufjan Stevens
Fin.
