You pick me when I’m not me – when you think I’m someone else completely. And I always pick you.
The problem is, who you fuck alters timelines, and you fucked in the wrong order. Her first.
You don’t know what I’ve given to god and the times I’ve given it up and how many times I’ve sworn to stop something for good. But I never do. And the mere promise of it – quitting – is enough to keep me conducting for my whole life which, if I’m lucky, lasts ’til 2062.
I’m an uneasy clasp and you’re a herb-avoider, and we’re an unlikely pair and we’re respective losses, respect each other’s losses, because we’ve accidentally left precious organs and keepsakes and cash in carrier bags which people mistook for trash and the reluctance to touch tongues is a high-school seventh heaven humiliation in a full changing room of half-dressed girls coaxed to strip by gym teachers who understand hierarchies better than history teachers. They paid their way through college with a retail-job-string, know that sentences are misleading, that there’s no greater nihilism than high-street fashion, and once you’ve sold a sweat shop jumper to somebody’s husband, there’s only one other challenge and that’s a simple button path to a treasure spot on a map Emma drew at 12 when she said, “Fuck people so they like you.” But it never worked for her really. And I’m a nervous undresser, and I imagine one day you’ll be a George Clooney-type, in your own entirely, and I’ll sew curtain hems until the fabric fits windows perfectly. I’m the girl that once seemed more than her worth; a cup of rice feeding a village for 20 cents.