When you’ve seen a lot of TV you know the choice between two people’s a life lesson we navigate trickily, and sometimes the choice is easy, I’m thinking McDreamy/McVet, and other times it’s complicated, the difference between rooms in a hotel block; an absolute gamble, a personal best, a stain on the inside duvet, a stonewall deputy, a blood blot under each sheet.
Hello and can’t quite and unfathomable and you are the powdered drink trying to unswell my throat if it is unswellable and not now permanently all the more bouncy and I remember the transition you made and each time you made it and I know you weren’t finished, were every part a Brecht masterpiece, and were a continue-grow, a keep-go, and I continue to coddle you, to swaddle and swoddle you, and you’ll never be blanketless around me. Instead I’ll buy every straight to video, every cinema ticket share I can take. And I’ll feed you M & Ms from pick and mix bags, just the red white and blue, then we’re solidly patriotic and no-one assumes it, sees it, waits, because how could they do this again?
If one word describes you, what is it? Have you picked specialities? Are you weighing your options? Are you asking advice from department heads, peers, street people who can make snap judgements your mother can’t make?
You’d like to think you’re complex, that you’re part of a story bigger than you, and every walk-out, break-up, row over babies or dinner was a chapter, segment or sentence, that made the decision for you. And you don’t know if Gemma made it, if Emma did, if you’d feel like this if he was single.
You said leave and he did and it didn’t make you happy like you thought and if you don’t know what’s best for you maybe you shouldn’t be healing people, maybe you should stop. And you wish he would stop he would stop he would stop but he’s your cereal, milk, water, dinner, drinks, shots, clothes. He’s the cops knocking at 4 and your friend ringing at 9 and the pizza delivery guy and the postman and the cashier at the store and the person pulling shoe sizes out of storerooms for you. He’s who you pray to, plead, every wish you make on candles, eyelashes, cookies, lights and lotteries. And he’s nothing, not yours, not in your bed, not close.