Be True

I’m going to raise rambunctious kids, all gum and gumption, spit; spirit like a Coke can exploding. Fizz but not much liquid, ultimately. Because mess is always less than you prepare for, and worry, thermal thick, defines days deeper than watches, and hearts can’t handle uncertainty. Mine can’t, anyway. Cliffhangers get to me. I don’t want to skip every exchange that makes this great like stage plays or Shakespeare or limited release movies which only play cities because small towns haven’t got time for, or all they’ve got is hours and it’s harder to schedule when silence lets your head breathe.

What I’d give to wake up without headaches, questions, regret, concern, my heart on a butcher’s shop polystyrene tray waiting to be bought because someone forgot to stick the sold sticker tight, so it sold twice. And nerve pain. I’d give my leftover dimes and Hello Kitty jewellery box filled with last year’s Topshop rings to find the sort of peace those 8 people in yoga class have, when all I can think of is dinner, ex-boyfriends, cinema times, puckered thighs and the lyrics of all Katy Perry songs.

If I raise kids, when we have them, and if, I’ll only have advice like, “Don’t date a guy ’til you’ve seen all 6 seasons of Sex and the City; skip the movies,” or, “Don’t do what I did, whatever that is,” and, “Let love make a fool of you.” And that last one, I’d say twenty times, even if it’s a lie and I didn’t do it, enough.

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Brinkmanship

You tell me it matters. I try to deflect any borderline-complimentary thing you might say, but last night on the phone you were firm, like a lesson outcome actualising itself before an observer, grading on a scale of 1 to 4. 4 is fail, you know?

You say that it matters, that it really, and hurts, and you hide stuff from others if it means I’ll stay but we both know I’m not the staying kind any more than you are and, if anything, that’s what will work, the unstickyness of us as a couple: I won’t live with you and you won’t want me to, when you really think about it.

Because online is best. Phone is better, but in talk time lieu, we communicate the worst way humanly (and, like, humanely) possible: Facebook. Tone’s not even the problem. Repetition is. And being that girl, scrap catcher, embroiled in a billion pointless interactions at the sake of you. Or for you. Except it’s for me. I’m the disaster.

You text ❤ like it’s a thing people do and I save up Catfish quotes for, eventually, we’ll end this. Won’t we? Maybe. We watch TV on a phone line and you say, “Someday we’ll be in the same room, together,” which is nice like the thought of grabbing a drink with Tom Cruise and finding what life is to him, you know?

This and the list of things you say which I wish I’d remember better, is what whirls when a movie’s on. And that fucking kiss.

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I’ve Grown Attached To Your Thinking

You think there’s revelation, altering us both because we’re in the same multipack. I guess our expirys match, or something, even if you’re way old, and when you say, “It’s fine,” it’s not fine because the only thing better is a stranger lying. I wish you were a catfish plethora, 6 people operating the same account so it’s always online. That would explain how you know what to say. Because, like, as it is, you spend days just thinking up a winning sentence, right?

But there’s just one of you. And you’re a dick.

There’s no satisfying answer, only, how can I sustain this many strands? I don’t read but, if I did, how’d I choose which book to finish out of the shelf stack, apocalypse-ready, except it isn’t food, so where’s the use? What’s the good in paper? Say, “You mustn’t know how I feel about you,” though I’m sure we said it, in person when we shouldn’t, and online, all starred out, on blogs, an investigator field day, matching IP addresses to the worst declarations ever, all 7 years late but, like, real, which is worse, I think. I miss doubt like a Lindsay Lohan laugh line.

Nothing happened. It’s not that. It’s the not happening, actually, being so available, droppable, how at home, achievements are glossed over like junk mail, no special offers, just my name and TV’s more attractive. And I’m sorry it hurts every time I try find a way to do a thing. But there’ll never be right, a right, and conjecture says we want the same things and the questions your friends ask I’d answer the same. But does it matter?

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