i'm fickle. i'm moisture. i'm somewhere between ski goggles and suspenders. i'm a spoonful of indifference. (she tells us: Adiaphora are indifferent things.) i've gone back to drawing people the way i did when i was five years old, all head and legs and navels, big smiles.
enlightenment to wear around yr neck like a scarf. secular and compulsory. are we going to give up this fast and let that skin-pounding trashtalker kick us out of our own home?
the irresolvable differences of our bodies and the ways in which we translate their urges. the yielding legibility of each small curve. maybe the key is just to be as joyously, unstumblingly open as possible.
i've always felt that even the first inkling (of desire) is already the same thing as following through; the decision revolves only around articulation. (you would say self-control.) how to extricate affection and attraction from each other, how to express them without confusing anyone more than necessary. tenderness and distance both.
this time with less regret, with fewer guilty doubts.
sometimes i wonder how and when i got so old, and sometimes instead i realize that all i have is endless time to kill (to fill!). these days i'm falling down a whole lot, scrapes on knees and elbows and i always catch myself on that same fucking left hip, swollen and changing colors every day.
my lungs are filled with all the exhausted inhalation of giddy nights.
it's okay not to be the prettiest girl in the room.
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