You’d like to know what the truth is, to then tell it. Whether you would, you don’t know. Truth’s defrosting and, encased in ice or otherwise, it’s exactly the same, but until you chip it, people act like they can’t see through, but it’s water, yo.
This conflict, between what you want and should, what you’re meant, and disappointment thick like printer ink when the cartridge pops first, when you decide what you did 5 months ago, and you keep deciding, and it doesn’t disappear like you intended it. That.
If the truth’s so powerful then why does no-one believe it? Why does everyone think it’s some flimsy joke in a shaky set? It might even be horoscope time, buddy. What sign are you, friend? Like I don’t know.
In the dream you settle it with pool cues. Not even a duel. They’re not weapons, no-one saws them off like shotguns or sharpens them as stakes or baseball bats them into a face. It’s a clean match. Your palm might even touch his palm before you begin because this is how men settle things; sport.
Which is why my hand’s over my eyes. Not because I’m easily offended by macho-ocity, or I’m upset that I’ll be made to stick to a decision I didn’t make, though that would upset me. I’m not watching and what you’ve all forgotten is, it’s my choice, only. May feel like I’m viewing an act play out to unsatisfactory conclusion but, actually, when my brain gets better than jelly, it won’t matter who won this match or the next, who scored higher on an internet test, who the 153 articles I’ve read say I should be with.
My eyes aren’t hidden because my sensibilities are offended. They’re closed because it doesn’t matter. I’m not the one waiting. And the pool? You’re both filling time while I think. And I think think think think think.
She asks would I want to know? I was pre-disposed, would end up with an auto-immune inevitably, a blunt knife best at scraping the cheese slice off its plastic wrapper when it’s stuck, but never getting all.
She says, “Shouldn’t you, like, for your kids’ sake, the ones you don’t have or you do?” I tell her no but it’s not enough, like a one size fits 50 Bible verse supposed to quash doubts about all the stuff that seems alright but every voice in church says WRONG.
I explain that life’s lucky dip-ness is the only thing going for it, that without a Poundland surprise, someone buying drinks you didn’t ask for, a person changing everything, inexplicably, sort of mind-blowingly at a worst time possible, days would outright suck.
But her, she wants to know, wants the test, result, an indication upfront of what she’ll be at 40. But I’ve lived limbo. I barely loved a second. But I don’t need to know I’ll get a detrimental brain disease anymore than whether I’ll know you next week or in August. The things I picked out for your birthday? You can have them. I’ve got what I’ve got forever. And you’re an appendix.
I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.
Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?
Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.
Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.
You are the exact opposite of want. I tell you this in between eyeing the inside of your jacket like it’s a baked potato and I haven’t eaten in five hours. That’s a lot of hours.
It isn’t the stitching, or lining, the fact that you’re wearing it, or the texture of the outside I understand as I patronisingly pat you down, deciphering who your wife is. And there’ll certainly be a next one: the joke level quantity alone fills 50 dishwasher clean jam jars.
I pretend I won’t talk to you ever or later; you won’t be on my mind as YouTube playlists shuffle Fiona Apple songs. Oh, sailor. Even your friends think it’s me.
Sometimes, you realise things it’s best not to know: a church upbringing is responsible for disappointment thick like missing filling Oreos, and dreams aren’t prophetic however much you hope. There’s more, sure, but lists are fun when it’s who’s fuckable, or which lips you’d kiss if you had to, and whose body you’d trade like Pogs or MTG.
A lot of these realisings happen at night once you sign off with goodbye or no and you nightlight stare, wonder which episode of the season this is equivalent to? The shaky first one, or smack in the middle when nothing happens, is pretty much filler, a bottle.
I realise you but don’t want to. Get that? I don’t want to. I can’t text book digest or essay write, or I could and that’s the problem. Being grown ups sucks. Time to lose brain cells, choose which knowledge to shrink like rice in the microwave, drying the water out you just cooked into there. Head on a stick.
I try to leave no paper trail except, with print outs, it’s unavoidable. Or screengrabs. You could Tumblr the shit out of those.
Not that I’m writing an essay. In fact, my sentence small output wouldn’t be better vocal, the way some plays look page-sparse but it’s all in the delivery and the torso saying it (Matt Damon? Please Matt Damon.)
I tell you I wish that I didn’t, and you star out words like a TV show ten years ago censoring, and we carry on talking and nothing’s resolved and when I close my laptop, a clip shut like a clutch purse, everything’s inside ’til tomorrow.
And always. Like, there’s no cure, for what this is. What is this?
Summoned you like Ouija spirits, but really real, anticipating a late game fix, dissolution grudge; Katy Perry and Rihanna are alleged friends, after allegedly not.
On TV, pointless is ripe a replay, and writers have an endgame, pair they’ll put together if they’re on air in 2 years, 20 or 4. These are the inbetween episodes in which something has to happen.
Because how do you erase somebody? Those fountain pen felt tip disappearers that made mistakes invisible, even those you could squint if you tried. A line-through is more respectful, maybe, than a nothing even there.
I’d like to list the reasonable things. A Top 5 of life is about THIS. But I need more time. A Christmas cut-off, I think.
At Monument, where Embarrassing Bodies was, a HEALING flag does a kite flap. I consider asking what they’d do a doctor couldn’t, but I knew people whose job it was to convince a cross-section eternity’s a blessing away. If a hand was enough to relay my skin like an underfloor heating improvement had just been made, I’d be BFFs with Jesus (if that’s totes not inappropriate). But medicine doesn’t work and vitamins are a temp temp pep up and exercise is a therapy I can’t 12 months sign up for. And I think that’s a full stop.