Monday, 11 August 2014

wordweeds

I wake curdled and plot ways to make the day acceptable. All-girl groups, loud and louder. Slow coffees. Scratching an insect bite all the way to the blood.

I drop a glass, my favourite glass, and in the slo-mo instant of falling, I curse myself, my life and gravity. But the glass bounces without a crack and for a moment I let myself feel wonderful.

Too many hours of sleeping and I am bloated and loose like tomatoes watered too many times.

Blown summer weeds are taking over my balcony and I can’t decide who to support. The flowers, the gaudy red geraniums who huddle in my boxes, laughing at the sun? Or these spindly interlopers, who scaled six floors to park themselves in my life, who are—already—taller than the rest?

I am such a sucker for persistence. But there’s another charm altogether in telling myself it’s okay to choose.

My pen springs a leak all over my fingers and I wonder if this should be my next tattoo. To be marred forever by my own future intent—it seems charming.

I need so many reminders to keep doing the things I mean to do.

I take thirty minutes at the start of a day to write this down and it is strange how the words work, how placing language over the muss of life—like marks on tracing paper, like trigonometry—serves to coalesce so many things.

I let my own metaphors take root. I go to the balcony and close my fists around a plant and yank. I let my feet be scattered with soil.

Monday, 4 August 2014

on vanity and cute butts

My legs drive him wild with desire. It’s ridiculous, because we’ve known each other way too long for my legs to be something that go all the way up to here, but here they are, legs, going all the way up. Here. I feel like a cartoon. I feel like a plastic doll designed to illustrate limerence to anatomy students. My butt, in these shorts, is too damn cute. It warrants a second look, so I take a second look, and send him a message saying “my butt is thinking of you”. The message is a folded paper airplane with psychic intentions. I am telling the truth when I say my butt is thinking of him, but not the whole truth, which is that my butt won’t stop entertaining thoughts of a wooden ruler going thwack. Put that in your paper airplane and fly it. My legs and my butt— so full of their own thoughts in this situation. So needy for attention. I hang a full length mirror in this hallway and twist myself back and forth. “Hey there good looking,” I say to the girl in the mirror, and she shows me her butt, and it looks great. I bet she shows it to all the girls, but still. Everything is fine, damn fine.

Saturday, 2 August 2014

Let's

When Clay’s around, I feel like I’m more exciting too. That’s a good quality to have in a gentleman friend. I come up with plans of my own for us. Let’s try to befriend the squirrels that live in the walls and the attic. Let’s go get some candy and stay up all night watching horror movies. Let’s sleep over in a graveyard, so the dead can visit us in our dreams.  
– Joey Comeau, the meteor shower  


I want to surround myself with people who make me feel like I’m more exciting too, and then I realise that that’s what I’ve done. We sit around, in the hours that are small and open as books. We come up with plans for ourselves.

Let’s leave our half-eaten midnight dinners and traipse into the woods, the night; let’s find a cool midnight lake to swim in.
Let’s go to the Japanese gardens and eat magic mushrooms. I want to watch the fountains undulate in the sunshine in the afternoon.
Let’s have a date where you teach me how to lasso and I teach myself to stand very still, as the ropes tighten around the tops of my arms.
Let’s pretend we’re other people, and then let’s take each others clothes off, and then let’s watch these other people have sex, and let’s judge them.
Let’s decide that they’re doing wonderfully.
Let’s take the first bus leaving the city and get out by a ruined pub, and let’s climb onto the roof of the ruined pub and lie on the tiles, and you can shove your hand into my underwear and I can wriggle and howl at the sky, while we hide behind chimneys, while the other buses pass us.
Let’s go to the restaurant in torn velvet and finery and let's order only starters for hours and for hours.
Let’s never eat anything from now on that isn’t each other. I’m so hungry. I’m so hungry. I’m never leaving this bed again.
Let's sneak out.
Let's not tell anyone where we're going.
Let's have a secret love affair where the only people that know are the palms of our own hands.
Let's tell each other these plans again and again while the small, open hours twist to day.
Let's not be afraid.
Let's kiss and giggle and giggle and kiss.
Let me take your thumb between my teeth.


Friday, 1 August 2014

Guests

The final guest has gone and this flat, these corners, begin to return to me.

The final guest has gone, for now, and my body is slowly shifting: blue to green to yellow to skin. I am growing back into my limbs.

“Stop scratching,” they all tell me, but how can I resist? Have you seen these marks, have you ever seen me so red and welted?

Oh, have you ever considered how delicious I taste?

This week was one of so much biting: the bugs, the boys, the bugs, the beauties. This week I was devoured by things both bigger and smaller than myself.

I let myself be taken. It’s a hobby. I’m never cuter than when I’m being devoured.

The final guest has gone and these two weeks are an inhale between then and Sweden. The oxygen I inhale will be breathed out in fjords and gulleys. Jack will catch a fish.

In two weeks, I will sit in silence, stacking small pebbles as monuments to the stream.

The laundry is in the machine and the dishes are stacked by the sink and I am about to slowly and meticulously return myself to this place.

This last month and a half came out of nowhere. Or rather, this last month and a half came out of the past, and sometimes the past oozes into the present like insulation foam expanding into all of our corners.

I let myself be filled. It’s a tendency. I’d forgotten just how good this one felt.

But now the final guest has gone and my body is not an apartment and the present asserts itself with sharp elbows. A jab beneath the ribcage to remind myself of me.