06252023

You look, how do you say, triste, when sunlight does not ask for permission to climb into the bathwater with me, the same expression as the someone who once told me I was lucky to draw a warm bath of my own free will. Free will, a hindrance not unlike the mousetrap in your kitchen cupboard. I will scrub my sentences clean to the letter. I will strip them bare, put them in the therapy, teach them to be expensive, and see them off to school. I will sew them into my sleeves, one by one, and instruct them to practice attachment in theory. I will memorize nothing, save the fog, I will understand nothing, I will require no responses. Speak to me when I speak to you, gorgeous.

Your teeth are in my coffee. If you should like them back, I promise not to drink. Twelve little midnights in a row your caricature falls into my dream, the way the bath-time sunlight once-did. Twelve little midnights in a row I wake up covered in imaginary. Disaster is embarrassment colored by hand, set in a great big room of silence, and photographed. The quiet ones ruin the party. The quiet ones are always photographed.