I’m Clinging

Sometimes, disappoint was adamant and the refusal of dinner expected and I could understand it. I didn’t know Beyoncé, wasn’t the Michelle they thought I’d be, and my misnaming was someone’s fault entirely, although I cultivate blame between breakfast and finishing it, and there’s a list of the unforgives and one of the almosts and I didn’t live through the nineties to end at a laundry sort of a situation which has me ironing underwear and bedsheets, things which don’t need ironing, basically.

And the break is a crooked kind of a garden ornament in someone’s decorative yard and it’s accidental apart from the affair which is only a half of an affair because watching and words are nothing, like, literally, nothing, and if you could handle the evaporation, the way days are forgetable minutes into the next, then there’s not a reason we can’t be us. Let’s be us. Forget every finger-fuck which happened in head only.

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