I’m an expert suppressor, buried decades in scalp skin, can instantly sink an unfittable thought quick like pulling greys or weeds or butterflies from veins when the drip ends.
I don’t want you in my body any more than my body wants what it has already and each unwanted thought, I peel the eggshell off so that the fleshy egg underneath, hard boiled and slick soft, is another viewing experience altogether.
But bodies have habits of unburying themselves if the job’s not original thorough, and that thought in that pub months ago, is still there. I wait for it to evaporate like nerve coating in my brain and my spine, but nothing uproots it, not any amount of convince or evince or conjecture or lie or physical altercation.
I’d like to rewrite feeling but apparently it just is: you feel and fuck you for trying, fuck you for having an opinion. You love and that love just is.
You threw the game even though pity is my least favourite thing. Favours aren’t always positive. Sometimes they’re cold tap water on a too late burn. You wanted the moment to last longer. Problem is, every moment needs to last extra seconds and this is only more impossible the older we get, once degenerative disease has a dandruff hold.
You potted a red, said “Two shots to you,” like I didn’t know the rules, I’d take a shot you’d essentially paid for, that this didn’t undo me slightly, the same way everyone’s eyes have extra sheen since diagnosis broke them like Easter eggs in rough hands, bowl-less.
But stretching encounters. Okay. I’ll eat that excuse. I understand it. Because each time with you is never enough. I want you in bumper size, basically. Multi-buy Poundland. Special Edition years later with added commentary no one really wants or listens to. But I do.
I want to be in love in a movie.
I want to be in love with Tom Hanks in a movie.
I want a complication-less love everyone understands the pursuit of.
I want shady decisions to seem romantic in light of other selections.
I want to be in love with Tom Hanks and for Tom to be in love with me, complicitly, like we’re an in-joke he can’t live without.
I want to fall in love like movies, one of those 200 puffs replacement cigarettes the end of which lights every menthol breath.
I want that Cary Grant love, An Affair to a Remember is, like, actually, dough-solid.
I want a stuffed crust affection, oozing over edges, infecting everything.
I want Tom’s ability to summate the crappiest act as romance, and to be that romance, and to wholeheartedly accept any palmed offering of always.
Where did it go, the notion that some things you’re told simply for you? When did diagnosis get fodder, dinner conversation at parties I’m not even at?
Selective smartness says people talk. I even really know. But I forget when my story traded hands into your hands, with permission gift to dollar slick each of my details into someone’s else’s teeth. Because I never gave it, to you, did I? You didn’t ask what’s okay, and what’s not.
What I’m over is sixth degree separation pity filling inboxes after ten and Christmas cards laced with condolences and sorry scrawled worse than love. And texts to say we’ve heard and people I work with finding out, choiceless, before I’m ready to tell. I thought that you knew; I thought you would know. This is not your news to tell.
I sent this Valentine, once, to this guy who didn’t know my middle or first name, who wasn’t going to. I used to think that a great loss but, you know what? It’s the tiniest ocean drop compared with the idea I’d never met you.
I wrote the lyrics to Iris like a song could say everything I couldn’t. He binned it after first break. My best handwriting next to a Mars wrapper.
If I did that for you, if we were in the same school year. LOL, I know, but for a second, music aside, your style, decade specific, and my hair, always Jennifer Aniston. People would talk, and they do, sure, but would you keep the envelope if I sent you something? Would you memorise each motif I write?
Because all of your words are better than literature: the stuff they made me study for four years. When mostly, you’re just talking shit. There’s nothing like it.
I’m going away and, when I get back, I’m going to have the kind of clarity TV show characters have, momentarily, though sometimes it sticks, and when it does, it’s very rarely regretted, like only 60% of the time: marginally.
I’m going to stand on a completely different concrete coast and forget about the shapes the land makes where you are, invitations bestowed and opinions of people I don’t know, who apparently think that I’m great. The people who know me truly, I guess they’d say the same. It’s me that knows different.
And I’m going to erase your number, would if it were in there, but I didn’t know what to log you under, except the obvious, and I can’t concrete that, can I loser?
When I get back, I won’t question words my mouth makes. A delicious dream, this, like last night’s, with less kissing. I’ll tell you about it sometime. As you tell yours.
When you piss me off, I’ll draw your attention, because this is a thing that you said.
It’s not the only or worst or last or best or, even, stupidest, but you said it. Do you remember saying it?
You’re so intent on saving something, I don’t have an adequate analogy for it. I guess it’s a bit like when our friend Sammy got born again and this meant that heaven beckoned but, also, the hell weight of all his friends going there, was a breeze block in a hot tub, and he couldn’t not try to convert. What else would a person do?
So claw. Imagine there’s this solid thing you can save. That we’re not an altogether hypothetical un-green-lit disaster waiting to happen. Why do we even like the idea of that? What the fuck is wrong with us?