hey can i tell you a secret? i was really bad at chess. and the person who was teaching me would let me get pretty far into the game, because it helped me see how long a mistake could echo into the little frames of a space.
i was kissing you then. you had your head tilted up against my wall because i hadn't gotten a bedframe yet and i was sleeping on the mattress on the floor and it was hurting my back like how my back still-hurts now. i told you i'd kiss him but i can't because it'd ruin our friendship but you and i were friends that kissed. i just liked the size of his hands and how he'd let me fuck up so badly at chess.
can i tell you a secret? i haven't been writing, ever since you turned around and walked out. i was holding a paint can when i found out. i wish i had dropped it and it had splashed dramatically all over the floor and swished green onto the walls and over my hands and over everything but. i set it down as gently as you're supposed to set down paint and i marveled for a second at the indented parabola it left in my palm and how gosh isn't it funny that things always get heavier closer to the floor?
hey can i tell you a secret - this one is a really big secret so watch out. okay. so. i forgot where we buried our dogs. i know they're in the back yard. i don't remember because i didn't help the burial process and i need to feel something physically in order to remember it.
you said once your hair was a color they never put into poetry. fucked up that at one point i heard something inside of me say she'll play you like a bow string. ha! that felt ominous! you and i were friends-that-kissed. fucked up that we all have pictures together of us dancing, and in them, we are all laughing, and the secret that was between us wasn't wrapped up in the pixels of the thing. fucked up the secret was just a question neither of us addressed - are you sure you're really just-friends?
how odd, to be kept. there are many things i've written about wanting to devour, about being devoured, about hunger, about the insatiable.
it was worse, to be your secret. it was worse, you know, to be kept in the palm of your hand, and only ever sampled, have what-i-want lapping at my throat. there is an anticlimax when you do not drown in the public pool. you just come up, shivering, and the world continues around you. it is worse when they know who you are and their heart is open and raw and you are just simply not-food-enough. they're so empty, but you're too full of sinew and bone.
i'm here, you want to say. i'm here. god, please. make me your home.
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
titsay
