Sunday, April 18, 2010

secret chord for the wasted girls

it’s been one week since i severed the tip of my thumb and told you i love you. it’s been the rim of acid on the important organs.


sometimes i think the very act of honesty is a lie. sometimes i think surviving a night like this is a lie. too blunt, too dumb, too blunt. honestly i think i’d try—for my mother i would not succeed but for you i’d try—the observation would be sharp, it’s not good.


i met her eyes across a dark street and we fell into false reality and just stared and stared at each other, turning as we walked to look and look and look and look, her blunt bangs and my slanted, her littleness and my hatred, us pretending we don’t exist: both her and me not existing, or at the very least not existing together--that’s not possible. anyway—she’s better—and i could be more blunt without my cowlicks, but i think if i was more blunt i would be a rock and not a girl.


sleep all you want. i am still searching for any kind of reason to abide—looking the way you look at a requiem or a white wall—looking at something where there is nothing to see, falling into the folds.


but there is the flannel, the culture, my mother. and the bluntness that is killing me and killing me is keeping me alive. so the worrying you aren’t doing is not important.


this wall—it needs a faucet. i think it was her.

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