No One Loves Me ...

dear .

i'm listening to too much bjork and dot allison. and reading ancient egyptian poetry about human geography. and it's all getting mixed up in my mind. when i sleep. i hear allison moaning about pomegranates and the sound of your voice and being forgiven.

the other night, i turned into an alien. and threw all the pictures of you out the window and into the parking lot. and laughed like someone had just set fire to the president. cool like. and satisfied. i screamed like a woman who knows what it feels like to have meat between her teeth. and imagined all those reproductions of you meant something. to someone. more than confetti dreams and the consequence of circumstance and damn good fucking sex.

with a little courage. in time. you might forgive me.

no.

No. Don't forgive me. Seriously. Buy the cd and a box of tissues and write me a letter 9 months too late about all the reasons you think I'm a rotten excuse for a human being.

I've got to go find some birds to sing to.

Hero.

.
by imogen

Situations that always involve bottles of wine (fine or otherwise)

I wish we were old friends. Sitting in midnight. I would tell you how wonderfully ridiculous you are. As is. Off the rack with the imperfect seams and irregular weave. The comfiest of clothes. Define, deconstruct, destroy (all evidence). The laughs that hide in folds of fleece and pillow creases. Corduroy pressings all down your cheek. Secrets flipped between our fingers, masters of prestidigitation for the words we’ll wish we’d left cupped against our wrists. Tonight (for one night only) a stunning display of illusions left behind the curtain. Show me the tricks in your magic jacket. The layers of invisibility: masks, cloaks, springs, switches, hinges and alternate dimensions. The manifestations of ill-defined self.

Never mind if I see through; glamours never work on your own kind. You should know. The rough edges will never be smooth on the bottom. Looking up from where I sit. Cross-legged and waiting. Folded hands, laced fingers, pressed against my mouth. I am smiling at me at you. The intimacy of never locking eyes/lips/arms. We are our own. Full-possession, full-stop: I am everything you think. You will not be afraid of my thoughts and neither will I. We will speak our opinions when no one wants to hear them. We will be gloriously wrong and hilariously right. After the humour fades into darkness over daylight, and the tangents spiral in Mobius strips. Pick a thread. Any thread. To unravel the stories, re-weave that shirt.

by My Mental Milkcrate