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Aren't I mean. I called you a dandy.
who even are you?
ah that boring question again. The audience looks towards the exit.
but I don't.
I won't.
not yet is tattooed on my thumb hand connection.
as if.
I'd rather spend my money on forgetting or dressing my corpse in thrifted clothes that continue to protect the modesty of a bleeding crone.
what the fuck does that even mean?
I'm getting older son.
that mushroom trip I had, the one where death was all in it. and I was practicing prioritizing because it was my last day and having a 'this is it huh' feeling. It was terrifying and irritating and bland. No colors. No rainbows. No dancing. No laughing.
just
"oh, I wanted him here."
and it makes bile come up in my throat to be so fucking
vulnerable.
and I try not to think of the person standing in front of me going "for christ's sake, I'm right here. you think you can do better? I'm willing to go all in and feel lucky about it bitch."
and thanks.
but you're wrong (be grateful I don't choose you).
last night. I sat buzzed listening to music and regenerating feelings I wanted to feel. or whatever you call just sitting in inebriation while you play music that reminds you both of Athens and why you played it to people you cared about in Athens.
meta meta
all I'm dancing around is that I'm beyond pissed that I'm not over you. and like Adele says - or Joni - being on both sides of it is a ... an odd odd thing.
the part that kicks me in the ass is wondering if you feel the same about me that I do about my closest mirror.
the room smells like cat piss again, but it's not because he sprayed this time. It's because I haven't yet changed the litter box. I'm too busy massaging my ego, wafting into the morning, trouncing worldle, wondering for the 354th day why the mother fuck I'm so so hung up on something dead. again. ouch.
and I can't forget you - person on the field - yet, I am still in the throes of recovery from my first love in decades. I miss his smug pocky puffy face, I miss his white fur, I miss the way he bounced when he walked, I miss that our names felt the same. I miss that he took his coffee with ice cubes from hot and in a glass glass. I miss ...wondering every fucking week if he was going to spontaneously choose to grace me with his presence. I miss anticipating that I'd feel safe once I got the "you're pretty awesome" non-verbal clue that I could see was really given.
but
I'm sure I'll eventually get tired even me - even me - of castigating myself and thinking how stupid I was to even believe...
I had that fucking night terror last night - the evil kind - where I think there's no one I can even call that I trust enough to tell me everything's ok - I'm not yet desperate enough for my mother - to risk if that would work.
and so lucky her pulse beats
while I beat my breast and rend my fat and worry that I'll suffocate to death alone or worse - with uncaring under-paid attendants. like my father.
ouch.
a dandy lie to own.
and with that, off to clean a litter box... for the cat.
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