I don’t have much time left before all of this turns into meaningless nothing, so let me get this down quickly.
Black panties hang on the hanger that’s supposed to hold washcloths, I’m back to being a slut. I’m sorry if I sleep around a lot, I’m really just doing it so I can have someone hold me as I fall asleep. I’m sorry if that’s selfish.
I want a man who reads bell hooks. Instead I find myself left with naught but memories of a man who should’ve never had children. I get so confused because there’s no such thing as truth. Texts lay buried in my phone, left with no reply, guilt attached.
I want to find a story in my life again.
I love the way love is poetic, an effortless narrative. I love the way love comes naturally to me. I hate the way I don’t know who I am when I’m not in love.
And so I resolved to belong to nowhere until I belonged to you, to become an emotional nomad who lives in the tectonic rift between your brain and mine.
I think maybe the secret of missing someone is realizing that lonely is exactly how I’m supposed to be.
Heat lightning illuminates the sky around me, staccato in its fashion, rain thunders down and I am not refreshed or reborn because I am trapped in this. I am perenially stuck.
I think I’m being haunted, except the ghost from my past wants nothing to do with me.
How cruel it is to love someone. I did something bad. That’s what I’ve been trying to say, to everyone, is I did something bad.
I would love you if I never saw you again, and I would love you if I saw you every Tuesday.
