down in me

soon soon really soon, but in the meantime here’s a poem because i know how you start jonesin’ (okay, i start jonesin’) and everyone hates a comedown. what a great weekend, right? what did you do? i kissed girls two at a time and hugged everyone and my body was like wow what is this stuff! my brain was spewing purple liquid in firework shapes. we are really alive today but let’s not try for 48 hours non-stop okay? i am filled with love for you lonely and breathing.

If I were the need for a pleasant air my mouth would be open

Do up the knots in my skin and quick
Hurl kisses at the orange night
We are not a thing that does what you do
You mean nothing to the thing that is him
There is nothing in a universal quality
That I can’t quite connect
When we talk about me you hear nothing
Nothing is the shape of my mouth when it breathes
It breathes in nothing and says things like third person
That stench is stuck to me

Superpower: inside is outside girl.

Acid-tongued, upper east side debutante.

I am exactly who you think I am.

Sleeping beauty sans handsome prince.

Ponytail swinging to the rhythm at the Lindy Hop finals.

I don’t care.

No, really, I don’t. Stuff happens and it just flows over me and rolls away gracefully, like water off a swan’s back (shush, it’s my writing and I’ll mangle sayings as I see fit). Most of the time I just can’t fathom getting my knickers in a bunch over the trifles of daily life. Naturally, everyone has limits. Even someone as obnoxiously carefree as I am. You’ll very rarely come up against those well-camouflaged lines, though. If you should happen to, by chance, I have only one word of advice: run.

I have a kind friend.

No, really, I do. I have sent him an email that says: I don’t mean to embarrass you, but you really are wonderfully kind-hearted. Everyone I know is hurt and scared (kindness towards others being out of reach at best, when you’re hurt and scared) and you were hurt and scared, maybe you still are, hurt and scared, but it’s like your insides were made to withstand terrible things. I try to be kind (I’m a good person), but it’s true that trying and being are different things. While it sounds simple, being as kind and generous as you is almost unnatural, and again, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but my immediate response to your kindness is (utterly involuntary) sexual arousal. I’m not sure what that says about me. Something kind, I hope.

I have beauty marks.

No, really, it’s true. Well okay, maybe it’s only half true. You see, I have three small, latte-coloured spots on my chest which an old lover called my ‘Bermuda Triangle’. I also have one on my shoulder. Sometimes I catch sight of this one out of the corner of my eye and for a half a second I think it’s a bug. It used to soothe me to remember that it is a beauty mark because, as the name implies, it must mean I’m beautiful.

Then I decided to research beauty marks on Wikipedia (as you do) and had the misfortune of learning that only facial moles can be called beauty marks and that my beauty marks are just plain old moles.

I am going to edit that stupid article.

I have decided to love you.

No, really, I have. I have decided to love you and no one - least of all myself - can stop me. Your only duty now is to make yourself completely available to me between the hours of twenty-four and seven, Monday through Monday for deep emotional, intellectual, spiritual and physical connection. That’s not much to ask in return for love, is it? According to everyone from The Beatles to His Holiness The Dalai Lama, love is paramount. You should consider yourself lucky and if you were religious you might even say you’re blessed.

I am quite comical.

No, really, it’s true. I am not great at relating anecdotes, though. I am more of a witty-one-liner-once-in-a-while kind of gal. But when it comes, it blinds you with comic fury and before you can grab your sides, you’re convulsing in an embarrassing fit of giggles and guffaws. My sense of humour isn’t run-of-the-mill. On the contrary, it has on occasion been considered offensive and distasteful. I often deliver my best lines to stunned silences and chirping crickets. There’s just no accounting for subjectivity.

I’m a good writer.

No, really, I am. I can spell and use a spell-checker and construct a hefty sentence. I use words like ‘hefty’ in place of meaningful adjectives and you never notice. This is mostly because I am very lazy. I just can’t think long enough to produce a story with characters and situations that would fill all the pages of a novel. I definitely can’t see myself writing non-fiction. I mean, that would require hours of boring research. No, I have a talent for spraying words onto the screen and making them stick. I should stick to that, right?