Dread to think what you’d say, if you hit the right keys

I try to leave no paper trail except, with print outs, it’s unavoidable. Or screengrabs. You could Tumblr the shit out of those.

Not that I’m writing an essay. In fact, my sentence small output wouldn’t be better vocal, the way some plays look page-sparse but it’s all in the delivery and the torso saying it (Matt Damon? Please Matt Damon.)

I tell you I wish that I didn’t, and you star out words like a TV show ten years ago censoring, and we carry on talking and nothing’s resolved and when I close my laptop, a clip shut like a clutch purse, everything’s inside ’til tomorrow.

And always. Like, there’s no cure, for what this is. What is this?

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Holding All The Fines

You’ll be accustomed to the distance by the time you read this, sure long distance can work and you’ll read advice guides to check and statistics will be frenemies you’ll use, disavow, depending on their findings, and you’ll want to prove normalities wrong. Each month will be an advent calendar kind of a wait but each chocolate will be self-bought and not reward but consolation for the fact you can’t do to each other what the people on TV do because the miles between, you couldn’t spit across them.

When you realise, temporarily the distance can work, you’ll wish that plotting was a strong point of yours, that you could throw a spell, or hire an assistant to make the transition simpler. Instead, you’ll dwindle until you’re not sure you love what you love or why you loved it, and what made the motorways matter, the train fares inconsequential in the first place. You’ll add to your list, ‘Close to my door,’ and wish that every man that you picked moved next door first so your father could vet them.

Eventually, all you’ll be accustomed to is a phone vibrating at the most sexless of times, a tease with a message like 😦 eliminating libido like there was some, and you hadn’t read an article on the pros of asexuality and the absolute commonality of it. Prevalence.

Let Me Motherfucking Love You

You can make a decision to love someone. I’m not saying I did this, but old exercise books have eligible men’s names drawn inside of hearts and popularity drove it, made it happen. It wasn’t a fateful, no choice in the pick, but an attractiveness scale and girl group to impress. They thought they were The Spice Girls. A tribute act doesn’t have to even look like the original, going by the ones I’ve seen, but maybe that’s England all over.

You were a decision in word only so I made a moat and rewrote cards I’d already written so you’d think my words weren’t meaningful.

What I know I suppress, and it’s only in the dreams I reveal my bent bra hooks to you and the hanging threads from my one pound Primark pants. And I want a worse judgement, to put-off, but yours is a fascinated face and when I wake up, I sense the wait in the seconds the clambering would’ve taken and I want to dream-learn, to dip into the memories of the dreams I did have. Instead, I end up in the ones I’m already dead, getting ready to die again, pursued, consistently, by the mighty and wrong.

My Mother’s Only One

I reveal more in chat than when you accidentally insert your finger into my mouth when you’re feeding me a chocolate which they put on the saucer when you buy tea in Thornton’s. You think that this is a seductive move but your fingertip salt is a weird truffle mix, and makes me unsure of answers to later asked questions. The same question, asked in a chatroom, a video chat or just text, gets a different response. Then, there aren’t other suggestions from other people who don’t know you enough to comment but comment anyway because that’s their prerogative apparently and, then, I was impressionable like Vine Street cement, baked bread, black sand.

But in this chat, before the excuses I make on phones and in person, I basically say that I made a mistake in the lie that I told when I took back what I said really drunk to you. Because that’s exactly what I should have said, what I did say, and you shouldn’t have let me wrestle it out of your hands with such a simple Chinese-burn-trick. But you did.

So each intermittent year’s been an intermittent string of intermittently amusing messages on a messenger service, logged like a historical document, which only tells a side of the story, as history ever does. Who won?