this same bathroom, these four walls
I’ve had every broken heart of my life in my parents’ house,
my childhood bedroom is stained with claw marks and spattered blood and teary grainy gritty lonely nights spent curled up
“Thank you i love the jewelry”
“Do you think our parents should meet soon”
hope you’re happy with the next man.
I guess, when you don’t lend everything, you can’t lose it when your lover leaves.
We are all strapped in for the ride tonight.
I’m thinking of you because of course I am, because I always am. Because I’m in love with you.
I wish you’d come knocking but I don’t, because I know I’d answer, and that’s the thing.
Summer, five years ago. Or else summer now. Or else lying dead in a ditch. Whatever. Each moment drags by the same. All just the same, tiny studded blips of cellulite stardust.
I guess, when you’re young, you have to give your virginity to a man who doesn’t love you.
I’ve been the lightest here, the heaviest. The same and different. Healthy brain, electric shocks.
I’ve been the nicest, the meanest here; jobless, jobful. Hopeless, hopeful. Mystic and plain. Always messy. Always in love.
A few more weeks of this and I might have to reconsider this whole thing.
