Taking over 4,000 felt foot steps as fast as my Kneeshaw legs can carry me. Swinging my hips like a Kneeshaw man above womanly spider veins behind knee caps. There is a dearth of words on this page because these feelings have been extracted from a panoply; a cacophony.
I anticipate becoming nauseous asap.
Dear Bob,
The magnolias will bloom any day now.
Love,
Melanie
My sweat is only unappealing to me because I imagine it is unappealing to everyone else. I wish I could forget the things that you said, because then maybe I'd forget my responses.
Baltimore, a city of spires and smiles.
I found my smile again (it found me) and dreamed of Staten Island magnolia,
honeysuckle in June, and January California wood sorrel.
I have forgotten my vulva and remembered.
I have forgotten I have work tomorrow and remembered.
I can never remember exactly the sound of your voice precisely,
and I'm loving these arbitrary lines and curves, arbitrary sounds,
the memory of two bodies in a corner meaning nothing but what we meant to each other.
Think me not too forward or too impractical.
Please don't think anything about me, because I will disappoint you for sure.
I thought before that right now, because before I was walking fast & breathing fast & now I'm writing fast, I thought before that right now I feel joyful in my misery. And now I can't find the misery. And now I've found it and I tell myself it's not so scary after all.
I imagined that I would need to enjoy my misery now if I had any hope of enjoying it later. I thought that since my left arm is sore from holding baby, I better write more with my right hand.
I better write more so my right arm is sore too.
I better never stop writing.
I better look out the window.
Breathing fast during aerobic activity such as the one recently undertaken and aforementioned reminds me of the idea that I am replacing all my old and tired oxygen with fresh stuff, creating more blood even. I am generally unaware of my blood being created, but I think I need to make some more of it. Feels like I'm missing a couple pints.
No redwoods are waiting for me at home and none will be tomorrow or ever again.
At home I am awaited by lack of mattress, lack of bookshelf, jupiter retrograde of hugs and kisses.
At home emptyish refrigerator waits to be opened by me, waits to be looked into and sighed at. I wouldn't feed myself even if It was full.
I'm missing a very important picture and a very important poem.
And you better be making that corned beef because it is the last hope I have of any of my dreams coming true.
I'm sorry I don't believe anything you say after you say it. It is my way of trying to kill any goodness or love or any connection between us. How disconnected do you feel? Because I tend to feel pretty disconnected, but maybe I expect connection to feel different and it doesn't.
Can anyone be happy in Baltimore? I don't really believe that they can, except possibly by sheer force of mighty will.
I don't know why I feel like I could never love this place. It can't be essentially unloveable. We just haven't really gotten to know each other yet.
This will be a slow to start, slow to burn, not very bright or warm but certainly existing flame. I hope.
This will be a Baltimore Orioles colored flame in a Baltimore Ravens colored darkness.
This will be the Spring of my new skin.
Thank you scabies for digesting my old one.
No comments:
Post a Comment