☆☆ in 1996, Bridget Jones lamented about the seduction of the informality of messaging mediums. clearly, we haven’t learnt much since ☆☆
| I Can’t Be Trusted to Text Appropriately | KMBG |
Are your words real
if your tongue never forms them? Does it count
if the air doesn’t vibrate with the thrill of it all?
Of us. Of the game we’ve made of deceit.
Tell me there’s such a thing as platonic arousal.
Placate me. Sorry, what I meant was fuck you.
I think you feel similarly about me, wishfully.
I don’t think we know how to be. We’ve always lived
and died on messy boundaries and still, every now
and then we splash paint around, leaving handprints in lieu
of responsible lines. If God's a foreman,
he's running out of tolerance for our claims of ignorance.
Each time, our skin stains faster. We know better now, and less
of each other. Are they my words now?
Sure, it’ll only be a few years before
one of us digs our fingernails in and begins
to chip away at new cracks in that same ridiculous paint. Again.
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