Toweling off and dry rot. Small shiny things, pink things, red things. Fascinators, attention-grabbers, wind catchers, butterfly catchers, dream catchers. Sore feet. Red things again. Working hard under a boss who hates you for no reason, all for the paycheque to disappoint you.
The problem is caring. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be doing this. The problem is that I was a kid who no one looked at, so when you look at me, I want to do everything to keep you looking. Shiny things again, small things. Tokens. I blow it. Money, men. I blow.
Sharp things. Toenails, razor blades, the sting of waxing one’s pussy. Soft things. Things I can’t get anywhere else. A cornered market. Sore feet again.
Heat like danger. Heat like dead leaves, dead grass. Dead girl. Dead girl loves you. I love you.
I love you. I love you.
I know later on I’ll be embarrassed I ever felt this way for you but I love you.
Sweet things, like your tongue in me. Tender things, like the bottom of your foot or sleeping on your chest. Hard things. Rough, scary, boring, grating, thankless things. Bad things. Red things again. Claspers, pincers, tweezers, pliers. Screwdrivers. Screw drivers.
Back in my childhood bedroom like I never left. How vertiginous it is to change so much and so little.
Plain things, pills and such. Little things, like pokes or like blinks.
I love you.













