it's interesting
what a little
and impatience
can do

these last vestiges of my patience, splayed and left stinking and wet on the sidewalks, would have been all that's left. footsteps and distant eyelashes. scratching on sheet beds. and shower stalls. stilted late night textual misery. plied out. and strange. so. much. strange.

only, now. there's nothing left. only the thick roll of smoke after a few glasses of wine. to remember.

there's not a mystery. about the way that life moves. in phases. that now happiness clings. cleaves. leaves me feeling like that last vestiges of my patience might take me to the ends of the pavement. the ends of the oceans. to swell.

there's a roundness to my face that's inescapable. as if some phantom pheromones sit, just below my jaw bone. some sick joke about being a woman. it mocks. the roundness i'll never quite fill out.

this morning, on my treadmill, i ran for 55 minutes. chasing it.
sometimes, there's nothing stopping you from leaving.
but going.

and so it begins

i saw the moon this morning.
although, i'm pretty sure it was an accident.
[i wrote a lot of bull shit in the middle of this]
but, actually, that's all that matters.
at the end of the day.

i've been writing you a letter.
about skin and bones. adopting somebody else's kids.
sometimes it has a lot to do with the Internet.
but, usually, it doesn't.

we've been trying to live our life more.
doing research about rhizomes. and the pull of ocean.
axioms of all sorts.
but you still aren't sure
about putting your cans into the recycle bin.
so, i'm not sure we're more than
watching renegade videos on youtube.

but the moon is out, again.
so, everything does.
come. just as it goes.

for years, i thought i was smiling with my eyes
but, i guess, thanks to handy web cam technologies,
i realized that my attempts at smize
ended up more
section me
death glare

fuckin scary.

I'm not surprised about the disgusting horrifying day we've had. The law was probably upheld. Which is, of course, usually the problem.

When will anything change?

Come on, America.

the only thing that courtney love and i
have ever had in common
is that i really do
want to be the girl with the most cake

i had a dream about you, the other night. it was one of those things, where i wasn't expecting to see your stupid face. and then you turned up, and the whole thing turned into a drawn-out never-ending chase. to find you. and when i catch up with you. in the dream, like. you were the same you that i hadn't seen in years. and i'm not sure, when i woke, that i was so surprised about that. only that there you were, in my subconscious. turned conscious. again. it didn't bother, me. really. you won't be the last thing that i never stop running after.

i used to try to document everything. every message from everyone who ever loved (or said they loved or those i tried to love and ended up hating or vice versa). note cards. and postcards and tickets of every sort. planes, films, mini-cabs, buses, museums and pubs. i saved every photograph. digital and otherwise. saved. not savored or learned from or sanctified. no. that would be one thing. but it isn't. it's something else. and, if i'd kept it all. now. i'd make a super speed version of all those late-night photograph mistakes and videos of drunken, philosophical, insane, raving manic versions of myself. all these carbon copies mashups. cataloged and ready to prove me wrong or you right. to sneak some secreted version of the whole goddamned thing onto the record.

then, one day, i piled everything up into the rubbish. selected every last file and hit the delete key.

and then, You were gone.

i'm not always that great with names. faces. facing up. finding the right words. now, when the day ends. i don't leave it where it began. ready. i stay up late. searching through odds and ends. washing up. trash teevee. accomplishing nothing. here, there are pills for back pains and the aftermath of a great night with good friends. homemade coconut milk banana ice cream. and when my teeth buzz, and i watch a spider speed out from the gap in the open window and down the wall, i think. jesus. fucking. christ. how in the god damned ever loving hell am i ever going to be. any good. to any body who ever really needs me.

dear mental jaguars,

when our eyes meet. like wet rocks. quadrangular. things shift. as if a rush of wind or a ghost crept in where memories keep. like fingers in pockets for loose change.

i never know whether to run from you. or to you. so much sharp teeth and quiet.

your, imogen. x