I’m Clinging

Sometimes, disappoint was adamant and the refusal of dinner expected and I could understand it. I didn’t know BeyoncĂ©, wasn’t the Michelle they thought I’d be, and my misnaming was someone’s fault entirely, although I cultivate blame between breakfast and finishing it, and there’s a list of the unforgives and one of the almosts and I didn’t live through the nineties to end at a laundry sort of a situation which has me ironing underwear and bedsheets, things which don’t need ironing, basically.

And the break is a crooked kind of a garden ornament in someone’s decorative yard and it’s accidental apart from the affair which is only a half of an affair because watching and words are nothing, like, literally, nothing, and if you could handle the evaporation, the way days are forgetable minutes into the next, then there’s not a reason we can’t be us. Let’s be us. Forget every finger-fuck which happened in head only.

Which Michelle Williams Do You Mean?

I start talking about her, to Jack, and I assume he knows who she is because, for me, she’s a fitted part, a bead on the necklace string that takes me steps closer each week until the prayers are all done. The prayers are wound down. But Jack thinks I mean Destiny’s Child, the gospel singer, the lesser known member, whose CDs aren’t mainstream now.

But I mean the girl they killed off at the end. The one that started it all. The biggest in terms of critical success because the rest are, well, a parody, a clone of David Duchovny, and the wife of Tom Cruise. But she…she you believe when she says, “What you do to me.”