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the keyboard was covered in pollen.
She had left the window open last night.
She was the kind of human that would pick a zit or a scab until it dramatically flared up, and she knew to leave it alone. She was never sure if they healed faster or slower because of her ministrations because she had obviously never had the patience to test it.
Thus you wouldn't have gotten that above paragraph.
She was trying to be over him.
The pot that the professor gave her seemed to help a bit, that and the sister jarring her out of her funk.
The new cat.
The ones whose balls were getting cut off tomorrow was screaming like a baby terydactal outside her
god,
she was in Macon
window.
Last night, there had been a storm, and like in the "sound of music" the baby balled boy had leaped to her open window and screamed until she let the screen open. Instead of like Cleo, this boy was brave (or desperate) and just umped right in.
It was midnight. She always worried about cat pee.
what a vile smell
and so virulent.
but he ended up on the bed with she and orangie
and fuck the world
she allowed it.
she allowed almost anything that garnered her love and acceptance -
or a semblance of such.
So the night passed.
it was indeed harder to get up
even though it's an hour and her bedtimes vary
who knew
oh life
she could circle around it all she wants.
he still matters the most to her.
she wishes so many things,
but mostly
that she could feel that unworried content
ok to be here
feeling that pot, sometimes alcohol, clonipen, and ecstasy....
and love
gave her
that feeling that the voices could shut the fuck up - all the chorus of the remembered jibes she had -
and sure there was a chorus of glimmers, "your daughter is the most amazing person I have ever met."... "it takes someone quite intelligent to decipher you - to be able to tell how very intelligent you are..." "you're a goddess." ... "since feeling is first..." "I adore you." "I thought about that thing you said ..."
would she tell you the jibes?
god no. they're too real.
but they ricochet inside her head all the time
they don't really love you.
they pretend
be very careful
and then she meets someone who feels strong enough to hold it.
but she's wrong again
she blows the container, and he runs for cover.
all due to words perhaps.
she had texted him, "I want to be exclusive and in your life."
it was a break up of sorts.
then he ignored her.
the she sent him the second piece of art she had ever given him - a piece of her writing.
her soul.
her attempt at Sappho fame.
or John Ignatius Riley
and he thumbs ups the ego part - the 'oh you're not cheap"
and she had made fun of the thumbs-upping of such a loaded
text.
good god.
it's been hard for her.
it took asking and breaking down to even recall
to remember her
"bitch, my music is good. the t-shirts I kept are nice."
It was all wearing off.
she didn't want it to at times
because it kept him near
but fuck me
the pain
get it done.
kill it.
but she had hated 'eternal sunshine of the spotless mind" and "Peggy Sue got married."
something about them both rankled her.
she wanted him back more than
god wants
episcopal church spires
but fuck.
it
she was macon the best
of
it
her most cogent thought on this vibrating verdant birdsong-ed spring day was to ask the heartbroken professor if he wanted to pick her up and take her to rose hill cemetary
and
lament
lament
repent
foment
god knows.
it was like losing oxygen
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