he picks a winner

it wasn't me.
was it you?

i've always been attracted to aquarians. and scorpios. always aquarians and scorpios. bad military big-guy types. with control issues. shy ones with no self confidence and gaping wounds. always. there was that one virgo who was more like them than me. and me and them. and then. then there was you. one more goddamned scorpio.

i honestly couldn't say like old onion skin and you've folded and i just couldn't say

what's happened to you

remember that thing i meant to write. that thing. about how you always keep me running. and how my mind, lately, drives my insides far too far too sane. and i can't even sleep nights. with all this thing that refuses to get cut out with blunt objects or razor blades. or threats of long-standing infection. and when i was done. boy. with that sharp pen. the scissors cut. the burnt ends dangling. of all the ways you make me feel. this is what was left.

hot tempra paint

once i was in love with a girl
who sent me a picture-postcard from Paris
it hangs still on my fridge

i wish i could shrink you down and carry you around in my pocket all day long.

it's that or quit my job.

either way.

there's something i wanted to put here. about how one day you wake up and realize that the past doesn't define you the way it used to. you don't walk around in your own world afraid to crack the egg shells or sure someone is going to discover that you're a fraud, even, at your very own expense. you're in control of your paycheck and your rent bills. your wardrobe and the sound and content of your own voice. and that no matter what and for the rest of your very own life. you can do with your time whatever you want. and maybe that took years of uncertainty. restraint. uncanny relentless pain. and maybe even in those dark moments it's hard to recognize myself. imagine myself now. here. in me. so staggering and staid in you.

on this, like any other grey rain soaked monday. imogen dreams of razor blades and fire. all those beautiful common distractions to a life so occasionally not well lived. then, i am the same me of the same you of the same way we love like merry-go-rounds and dreams of unkempt back gardens. all these cello-tape desires. imogen has cheap big dreams of bedrooms and custom fencing. and maybe a pit bull. or two.

these wet cement hours
when you leave
and i discontent wait
drink coffee and long
to stare and stare
at your face

i desperately wanted to have something to say. but my tongue feels like navy knots. and the only words i can think of are oil spill.

this morning. the electronic board on the bus read:

. . . june 20, 1998. 8:48 am . . .

conversations in the real real world

when i was in the shower and the whole world smelled like cheap tropical coconut and baking soda i thought. actually, i'm not a complete idiot.

there are two or three things that i don't need to be told. i know i can't get pregnant. with or without sex. i'm nobody's virgin mary. and i know that no one's mother should get drunk all the time and smoke cigarettes and that when the baby comes i'll need to grab the it's not just me anymore string and pull. hard.

but not yet.