You’ll probably have read this before I wake up.
Then we’ll play twenty questions that’s far more akin to twenty-thousand questions and you’ll make me think far too much. But it’s good to be open.
You seem to ease my nerves and make them twitch simultaneously. I dunno.
You have the upper hand, I think. You seem to have the advantage of knowing where everyone is and I’m in the stands sitting cross legged, seat z66, mouth gaping and dopey eyed. Big, blue pools welling then bursting. I am the leak in the dam that no little Dutch boy could plug with his thumb.
Given the chance you’d probably dab at my cheeks feverishly hoping to dry them but I am amphibian and you’re hurting me. These tears nourish my skin. I need them, I am a sponge absorbing liquid.
Give to me
I don’t care,
sweat on me.
I don’t mean that.
Maybe I do.
Now I’ve written two people into one piece. Isn’t that funny?
Fuck me up, feed me to the devil. Give me wings, break them and ask me to fly. Hold my hand when I’m quaking and dislocate all my fingers with slow definition. Kiss me and bite my tongue clean in half just because you can.
Press me like a rose,
Feed me formaldehyde at the bar until I’m nothing more than a mummified girl on display. I’m not an antique no matter how vintage I pretend to be. I’m no mystery, you can read me like a book and where pages are missing I invite you to ask.
I ask you,
if you think you know who you are,
what shade of blue are my eyes?