The static on my television screen has begun to form dialogue and detrimental depictions of my life from other lifetimes. It’s nearing four ante meridiem and I’m jacked up on all sorts of vowels and sentences you strung together earlier this evening.
All sorts of painting words, panting words, preliminary words and phrases and please’s and thank you’s. I’m a good girl, truely.
I’m worried that I’m not just dreaming these figures and sprawling panoramas, that perhaps they are real and I’m the very thing imagined.
I’m worried to be un-important
and I feel so unsure.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep and sensation in the pit of my stomach or it could be the absence of any form of intimacy that’s really driving me wild. But I think I’m just uninterested in sharing oxygen without emotion.
Love is what really turns me on, musses my hair, makes me sweat and sends my eyes black with anticipation.
Fall in love with me and I with you and watch my back arch steeper than Everest, watch my toes curl, see my throat pale outstretched and see my submission.
Fall in love with me and I with you and you’ll never have to worry. I won’t ask you to prioritse me but you will always be treated like the only man on earth. You’ll never have to worry about whether you are smarter or more talented or more hysterical, because you are.
The static on my television screen is starting to spill from the glass onto the floor and it’s slowly creeping up my ankles. My feet are instantly lost in the black and white pixels and feel like pins and needles.
You are there, sculpted in white noise sitting on the end of my bed but I can’t see your features. It’s like the sounds dripping from your mouth are integral to this moment but I can’t decipher them. The transmission has been interrupted by some other broadcast I don’t give a shit about.
I’m crawling down to meet your hazy form at the end of my bed but my bed stretches on for miles and before I know it I am short of breath and feeling dizzy. You’re waving me down, I’m forcing my arms to drag my worthless hunk of flesh down the highway of sheets and cushions to lay my head in your static lap and have you stroke my hair.
I could have sworn you called out and quoted,
“We can’t stop here, this is bat country“