This Could Kill 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 orĀ 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.

masks

We’re All In This Together

You were suspicious of me once, when Jack was here, when Jackie was, and you asked outright, or after 8 texts to friends and your mother. You always text your mum.

And the conversation lasted past both our bedtimes – my 11pm, your 12.30. And you cancelled Saturday morning coffee, there weren’t movies, and Sunday wasn’t an out-of-town aquarium, an over-the-border shopping centre. Instead you silenced every phone call I made, even when we were in the same room.

I’m getting your attention, securing your eyes, buying gifts to extinguish ex-girlfriends I fucked and others I slept with and I wonder if there’s a quota, of women you cope knowing that I’ve been with. And if there is, am I over it? Am I over the amount, or will another 8 days, 14 or 4 erase your fish memory that forgets what I made you for breakfast. Should I be worried about that?

Disallowed from slipping your shoes off, checking your scalp through your hair.

This is not a story with a beginning, a middle, or end, because the start wasn’t the start of something, and there’s no such thing as a clean middle, because middles are intestines, and the end we don’t touch however we try, and when we’re close, we want to live, just let us the fuck live for a second, to see every second you swore we’d see you lying ____.

 

Safe and Sound

We are not the ambiguous end of an indie film.

You’ve been using my flat while I figured out steps after your dad got me fired, and your mum said she’d help us, which turned out to be lies, and you got inundated with texts until you were sure we were broadcast, we would be, on Wanted posters in town, blogs.

But no-one revealed the secret. I unveil it now, after so many months, speculation, false accounts, police reports, sightings, harassment filings.

Because if the first time we kiss in public is this, if you don’t count when you grabbed me outside of school the day I left when you really weren’t meant to, I want people to know that it’s us and be used to it. This is not a crime. Or it might be, but whatever.

The Calendar

How many times will we lose, un-lose each other?

Haven’t you seen the films that I have? There’s always a break. An overcoming obstacles moment. When will we reach it?

We should’ve walked, jogged, walked, jogged at intervals until we improved at it. We should’ve had a plan on the calendar, a date in place at which we’d stop at.

I don’t know how to quite you. And I don’t mean quit.

Just say our cycle could be cyclical forever and I’m happy. I’m OCD, uncomfortable with alternatives. I’d rather almost you than complete somebody.

20120501-124917.jpg