Someone will come with an offer when you’re past the point of goods, bads and okays. You won’t know what an okay is. You’ll romanticise, reminisce and wish you could picture in its entirety the sort of offer you’re after, you’d really like to receive.
But there’s no like, no promise, and a person’s words aren’t better on paper, and you can’t justify a decision in writing. An action, an action is all there is. And god would say that too if we were on speaking terms how we used to be, in primary, again in middle school, but the fuckers in my head now are unerasable ex-boyfriends and people I’d rather forget. Excuses and almosts and a yes that is later retracted and hope before there is none.
You’ve never known the number of strikes I operate on, the rules I have for conducting relations. It was cobbled together from the mouths of Sarah Jessica Parker, Obama and one of the Jens and the Afflecks. You teetered, topped up the way computer characters regain juice the longer you leave them.
And you thought words were a tool, corrective, like love poems when you’ve fucked a different person, not the one you should have, or on Valentine’s when you’re trying to staple, cement, your eyelids to the skin of another. Or just shut them – you could sleep then.
You’d like to wrap your guts in a bag or a blanket, tie the top of it, so that it’s ready to boil or burn.