I feel it may be enough- my cat and my books and my jar of marijuana.
I don’t need to have a penis in my vagina every day in order to be fulfilled, and I don’t need a boy to call when I get out of work in order to solidify my day. I don’t need to be told that I am loved and I don’t need to be taken out to dinner. I can buy my own drinks and I dance better by myself.
I think you are unhappy here with me. I know your heart is young and your mind is fast. You get lonely in the spaces between your bones. A space I used to fill, now I think you feel a void.
It seems to me that lately I am insane, intolerable, inadequate.
Have I chosen the correct path? All my decisions seem fruitless, wasteful, rotten.
I feel the same ache in this town as I did in the last. A hungry heart. An empty stomach. A dizzy mind. I feel untalented, unprasied, overlooked.
This cigarette is turning my stomach. I have to balance the ashtray on my knee so I can write this down. Hot white mind. Hot white thoughts.
If I could I would desire nothing and escape into a dreamless sleep. But I desire. I expect. I anticipate. I wait.
I want satisfaction and a feeling of fullness inside my chest.
I want your eyes in mine.
I miss your sweat on my skin. I miss your beard in my hair. I wish you were here now.
Your eyes on me are the first thing I see when I walk through the doors of the bar. You look pleased, I freak out and pretend you are not there- only you are, and your presence is overwhelming. I avoid you and run to the bar to order shots of tequila. They arrive and I take them. As soon as i’m biting the lime you’re standing behind me with your arms around my waist whispering: “I know you saw me when you walked in.”
i bite the lime harder and melt inside.
