I read books until my 18th birthday. After that, the “have to”-ness, made the process attractive as anchovy pizza.
There are opinions. Trustable ones, solid like second hand furniture checked for furrowing woodworm. And the ideal is ingrained like Corinthians and the Fresh Prince theme or the yellow M. Mouthwatering down to each tooth root.
I undercut myself completely from 12 and the damage is not reversible. But ours is, which is a fuck-up luck advent calendar second life shot jumble. Rare as Impossible Princess.
No matter what happens, there’s no banter like it. And that’s a compartmentalised important sort of novel detail that mattered pre-diagnosis, before any off-switch, was theatre director fact. She said, “Is he coming? Can he see it? Will it be a bit fucking weird?”
And I can’t change all opinions, of the part I family play to each of my well-worn peoples. But updating operating systems is time-wise lengthy, and maybe we won’t blame others for changing our minds on this one, for how were they to know? How were we?
You might think an interview process with ex-girlfriends and current ones would be easy and sticky like napkin-less takeaways you eat walking. They whisper when you leave rooms and you know this because they do it when you come back in, too. And you use verbal placation, the same sentences appropriate for both people, because although those you date are different, have dated yearly, for weeks or just days, they have essential commonalities, understand each tone of you, hear it right down to the cages of ribs and the swellings of organs which shouldn’t swell and you should see a doctor for. Things which swell aren’t always euphemisms. But you don’t see doctors, and you enter into situations such as this, a girlfriend and an old one and a low spoke tension and physical lies and an unclenchable feeling that some times shouldn’t collide and timelines aren’t reversible and you wouldn’t be a traveller if it meant reliving anything because why date up when you can date down, in age, anyway. And the thrill of each ending was a story you wanted to tell, irregardless of notches, numbered on wood, before you’re dead, or after it. They’ll talk then. They’ll talk then. They talk right now.
I make you half-filled cups, in which the water barely soaks the bags I dip, and these are each nondescript flavours and you take deeper swigs than you’d need to if I brim-filled it, knew what I was doing, except I do, and the purposeful pour is control I execute over us like the lies which are list-worthy, committed to memory, in fact penetrable, confession ready, hell-takers, tie-breakers. In fact, if this is a tie, this one year, a little more, a TV time three-year fuck-up, then my rosary beads will fucking burn the scars on your feet until the on-top scars cover ones the other girls left, the girls who are women now because it’s so long since they got paid off with babies they didn’t have but did but you don’t know if they did but they did. You are so much older than me.
I watch the clip looped because, involved in it, when you’re inside of somebody’s mouth like this, the impact of the essence of the spectacle of it is unexperienceable, and the fumble-ability of your lips clicking and the lunch you taste on his teeth, food caught in, isn’t the viewers’ angle. Ultimately, is it better to spectate this sort of event, activities close-up and skin under?
He comes back and this happens in real life too but I can’t state enough the awkwardness of a break up reunion in the middle of a people-laden street in a town in which you know everybody. Unless you’re an attention seeker, and something says Toby is, a statement maker, you’d want a kitchen sit down, a cup of coffee pepping to be ready for a replay of kisses you could almost forget except in rollercoaster dreams in which the movement is a well wrought seasickness, a sleep-talk or walker committed to the reality they’re tricked into. And Toby’s a trick. A come back trick. And in real life he’d have news like, “Pregnant,” and, “Girls,” and, “Dating,” and, “Prison.”
We’ll collude and when we can’t, when every excuse is an invitation to make a joke dirtier than the ones Tim attempted in high school, we’ll find other people to efface. Except, I really like effacing you.
I will take you unsafe places to see the corners of your eyes which, unexamined, are mistakes overlooked like A grades. We talked through every top set class because what’s less motivation than teachers saying you’re the best of the best of the best? I lost my potential like earring butterflies in swimming pools, clubs, toilet cubicles. Like best friends swapping in and out of favour, taking back gifts to bestow on another.
I am a catch, an understand your jokes, almost never late, catch who’s seen every episode of Frasier. And if that doesn’t impress you, when we’re snuck up on, filmed, photographer, fired or broken up with, I’ll find a way to your house or hotel room and watch whatever you watch when you’re alone. Even porn. Even that Paris Hilton one.
I’ll pretend we never met even though I wish fictions about us were actual and always and once, when the script said kiss, I couldn’t control the undersides of my hands and I undid zips which didn’t call for undoing.
On TV they tell that you’re lying by blinks, mistakes you make stuttering, speech impediments be damned, it’s incriminating evidence alongside blusher, sweat, spit, finger tips grating against the skin of another.
My eyes are pinned and I won’t close until the entire paragraph is mouth-free. I’ll recite a line from a poem I wrote about you in high school – when you were a student and I was your teacher. I could even re-tell the story of us the way we’ll tell our children, without x-rated, cops, my nails scratching at bra hooks, slipping through the outlines of flowers on the lace that you’re wearing.
And what we will tell, lie-less, is a matter of opinion, an opinion matter.
You sleep first and the neighbours fucking isn’t enough to rouse you.