It gets thicker every passing day, my dysfunctional ability to commiserate. I don’t understand why it’s a fight. I want to hold this as a precious thing but now I’m growing afraid. It’s not the Us as much as it is the We. Every day a trial. I wanted to watch you walk away. I wanted to smile and wave like the best little girl I could be but I was a shell. I was on the floor with my back against my too hard slammed door that kept me from smashing the mirror I saw my face in. I don’t know what I could do to change might into enough. My kisses stab me like the sweetest tracheotomy. I need something else to breathe. I need something to break that won’t matter later. The best thing I have laid hands on is my heart.
If I were stone, I went past polished. Erosion, exposition, my tongue is full of sand. Every word has bitter grit lining the edge of the muscle, in the shape of the mouth opening for sound. I could try to explain the draw of it, the lines that curve my body on paper thin sheets at your voice, but really it’s all about waiting for you. Fitting me in where you can. I’m the wrong shape for this, I’m the wrong body purge to be beautiful. Time ticking past and I’m trying to take it. Claim it and taste it. Force malleable thought into pores that resist with fiercer fights every day.
I think about the street, where it leads, the rumours it lends lines to. I think about drama and the scent of chasing down questions I can’t ask of other people, of answers that confirm suspicions I don’t like to have. I think of the moment your face bursts into awe.